


The Dead Zone

by HawthorneWhisperer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, collection of unfinished WIPs, so there's literally something for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:57:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: I don't post fics until they're completed, but the downside of that is I have a lot of fics that are 40-60% written that have never seen the light of day because I bailed on them.So this is a collection of my abandoned WIPs, which means they all have one thing in common: they are unfinished.  That means no whining when you get to the end and it's unsatisfactory, because that's the whole point.  Some of them I started back in like, s2, and some might have major continuity errors because I have not reread them in years.  I have probably cannibalized some of these for other stories, too, so if stuff sounds familiar that's why.This also means I am asking (nay, BEGGING) you to NOT ask me to finish any of these. They're unfinished.  That's the point.  Please, please, PLEASE, do not leave a comment asking me if I'll write more, because I literally can't.





	1. Arranged Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> I probably have notes to myself in some of these, mostly in brackets, for scenes I intended to write but never got around to, so that's what *that* is about.

  
  


_ Rule 1106.1: To increase genetic diversity within the remaining population, partners will be assigned based on DNA analysis performed at birth.  Three (3) potential matches will be made for each person in case of death or same-sex attraction (see subsection 5). The maximum age difference allowed will be five (5) years, and partners will be informed of matches when the younger party turns eighteen (18).  At the age of marriage both will undergo complete medical physicals to ensure that both are capable of bearing one (1) child. When both partners are of age they will have one (1) week to be joined in the ceremony of their choice and the marriage registered with Ark Central Authority (ACA).   _

  1. _Partners will have two (2) years from the date of marriage to acclimate before the female’s implant will be removed and if no child results in the next twenty-four months, both partners shall undergo another complete physical examination.  Physical exams will continue for every six months until a pregnancy is achieved._
  2. _a) A medical officer may determine if medical intervention is necessary._
  3. _b) Partners may petition to have the implant removed earlier if both parties are agreed._
  4. _Either partner may petition for the marriage to be dissolved on the basis of physical or verbal abuse.  ACA will review divorce petitions and reserves the right to either dissolve the marriage or refuse the petition based on provided evidence and the current genetic diversity status of the Ark._
  5. _c) The Chancellor may overrule the ACA review board at his or her discretion._
  6. _Should two people not matched by genetic analysis have relations resulting in the conception of a child, both parties are considered to have committed treason and will be dealt with according to the terms of the Ark Charter, Section 231.  If the treason is discovered before the birth of the child, the sentence will be carried out as usual. If the pregnancy proceeded to term, the child will be held per the Ark Charter until he or she comes of age and his or her case will be reviewed by tribunal._
  7. _Before turning eighteen (18) an individual can petition for release from the marriage pool on grounds of same-sex attraction, to be granted at the Council’s discretion._



 

Clarke read the regulation through one last time and set down her info pad.   _ Adultery or physical abuse. _  That was it— the only way out of this.  He could beat her or she could risk getting floated, and even then the Council might refuse to allow a divorce.

 

It wasn’t like she didn’t know this would happen.  Rule 1106 was passed shortly after she was born. She’d had eighteen years to get used to the idea, but honestly, a small part of her always assumed she’d be able to get out of it.  That her mother would rig the tests so she could end up with Wells— there was no way they were related, right?

 

Wrong, actually.  They somehow were considered too genetically similar, and so was Finn, apparently.  Clarke had considered petitioning for an 1106.5 exemption on the grounds of her attraction to women, but in the end she decided that she  _ did _ want to be a mother, and she wasn’t  _ not  _ attracted to men.  So she stayed in the pool of marriageable candidates and now, at eighteen, she was wondering if she’d made the right choice.

 

She swiped the screen and looked at his picture one more time.  

_ Bellamy Blake.   _

_ Section 17, Compartment 1138.   _

_ Birthdate: 2.18.2127.   _

_ Occupation: Janitor.  Washed out of guard training January 2149 _

_ Mother: Aurora Blake, floated 1.3.2149 for breaking Rule 386.   _

_ Father: not listed.   _

_ Sister: Octavia Blake (status: pending).   _

 

She remembered his case because her mother and father had argued in hushed tones about it for weeks, and the whole Ark had been buzzing with the news not only that  _ someone had a second child  _ but also _ kept it a secret for sixteen years. _

 

He was handsome, at least.  Longish dark hair, a straight nose with a smattering of freckles.  Dark eyes and a strong jaw with a dimple in his chin. He looked grim, but then again most Ark issued ID photos weren’t very flattering.  She looked like a deer in the headlights in hers, all wide-eyed and blank. She vaguely remembered him catching her and Finn making out in a storage closet last year-- he looked annoyed as he barked at them to leave and barely spared them a glance.  She wondered if he remembered catching them and decided he probably didn’t. It was a brief moment months ago, after all. 

 

_ New residence: Beta station, Compartment 7290.   _

_ Date of Marriage: 11.16.2149 _

 

One day.  She had one more day to meet her future husband and the father of her child.

 

One day to swallow down the anxiety that was threatening to eat her whole.

 

She steeled herself and set off for Section 17, hoping he was still home and not at work.  She didn’t know what shifts he worked, or if they would align with hers. She also tried to ignore the fact that he had had her information for a full twenty four hours and hadn’t tried to find her.  She had waited, hoping he would be braver than her, but no such luck. It would have to be her.

 

Clarke rapped sharply on his door and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.  His compartment door opened inward and then he was standing in front of her. Bellamy Blake.

 

Her husband.

 

For one second they just stared at each other and then she stuck her hand out.  “Clarke Griffin,” she said stiffly.

 

He snorted and took her hand in his.  It was rough and callused as it slid over her skin. “Bellamy Blake,” he said sardonically.  He stepped aside and jerked his chin. “After you, princess.”

 

Clarke ignored his tone and ducked into the apartment.  She’d never been inside a Section 17 compartment before and tried to hide her surprise when she realized it was just the one room, with two bunks cut into the side.  It was grim and windowless, without any decorations on the walls. It looked more like a prison cell than anything else.

 

Bellamy was leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed.  “Can I help you?”

 

“We’re getting married tomorrow.  Didn’t you think we should meet?”

 

Bellamy shrugged.  “It’s not like we have a choice.  We’ll be married whether we know each other or not.  That’s how your people set it up, anyway.”

 

“My people?”

 

“Your mother is on the council.  They’re the ones that passed eleven-oh-six.”

 

“My mother fought against it,” Clarke retaliated.

 

“Not hard enough,” he tossed back.

 

This was all wrong— they were getting off to a horrible start.  With an immense effort Clarke bit her tongue and took a deep breath.  “No matter who’s fault it was, we’re getting married tomorrow. So I thought it would be nice to get to know each other.”

 

“Nice,” he sneered.

 

“Yes.   _ Nice _ .”  Clarke crossed her arms and refused to back down.

 

Bellamy let out an exaggerated sigh and pushed off the door.  “Fine. Let’s talk.” He sat down at the tiny table and raised his eyebrows expectantly.  Clarke sat across from him and met his gaze evenly.

 

Silence.  

 

_ Okay, fine. _  “What’s your favorite color?”  That was a nice, neutral question.  He couldn’t possibly sneer at her for that.

 

“Grey.”

 

“Grey?”

 

“What other color is there out here?” he said with exasperation.  Clarke pursed her lips and frowned at him and his eyes softened slightly.  “Look, that’s not— that’s not something I’ve ever thought about, okay? So what’s your favorite color?” he asked.

 

“Blue,” she replied and it seemed like a smile played at the corner of his lips.

 

“Blue.  Okay then,” he said and this time he did smile, making her heart do an odd stutter step.  It changed his whole face, going from serious and severe to warm and open. “Look princess, I have to get to work soon, but we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other after the wedding, okay?”

 

Clarke nodded and stood up, still not sure how she felt about him.  He seemed mercurial, snide and challenging one minute, laid back and teasing another.  Clarke liked people like Wells or Finn— people who were easy to read, who wore their hearts on their sleeves.  Bellamy would be a challenge, that was for sure.

 

**

  
  


Bellamy ran his fingers through his hair and gave the official standing to his side a tight smile.  Technically the ceremony wasn’t scheduled to start for another few minutes but Clarke didn’t seem like the type to be late.  In fact, he would have pegged her for a ten-minutes-early sort of woman. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be— the Council might be controlling his life like a sadistic puppeteer, but they did grant him one night off of janitorial duty in recognition of his marriage— but it made him even more uncomfortable.  Clarke would have gotten the same break, so it wasn’t like there was an emergency in medical holding her up, but here he was, standing in front of Clarke’s mother and friends all by himself. He wondered if she was locked in a room with some bureaucrat, begging to be let out of this disaster of a marriage.

 

He wouldn’t blame her if she was, because he still wasn’t ready.

 

He’d had five years to prepare and the thought of getting married still turned his stomach into a mass of knots.  Mostly because he never, ever thought his match would be  _ her. _  Clarke Griffin was Ark royalty and he had always suspected the system was rigged to keep people like  _ her _ away from people like  _ him. _  He wondered who she’d pissed off to get paired with him.

 

From the moment his tablet beeped with the message  _ Rule 1106: Match Of Age _ he had been operating in a mild state of shock.  Her mother was on the Council; his mother was floated for breaking the law.  It just didn’t make sense. He knew he should go find her and at least say hello, but every time he went to leave the compartment he changed his mind.  He wasn’t ready to face her disgust at being matched with someone like him.

 

She hadn’t seemed upset though— more nervous and unsure, at least until he goaded her into snapping.  Which wasn’t his brightest idea, but he had a habit of going on the offensive when someone threw him off balance.  Part of him wished he’d gone easier on her, but he also knew there really wasn’t much point.

 

After all, she was already in love with Finn Collins.  

 

A noise outside the door drew everyone’s attention and in stumbled Clarke, her cheeks flushed with laughter.  Her hair was down with just a few strands pulled back.  _ Like a crown _ , he thought to himself.  He used to spend hours telling Octavia stories about princesses, and here he was, marrying one.  She was in a dark, knee length skirt and the light blue top she’d worn the day before. Maybe it was just an Ark-issued shirt, but it set off the blue of her eyes like it had been made for her.  If nothing else, she was pretty.

 

Wells Jaha walked in at her side but fortunately his father was nowhere in sight, perhaps too busy to attend a routine ceremony or perhaps conscientious enough to avoid the children of people he’d floated.  Wells frowned at Clarke, who smiled and practically  _ skipped _ to the front of the room.

 

“Clarke, honey?” her mother asked, mirroring Wells’ frown.  “Are you okay? I thought we were going to meet before this.”

 

“I’m fine, Mom,” Clarke said brightly.  She turned to Bellamy and grinned. “Let’s get married!”

 

This bubbly, cheerful Clarke bore little resemblance to the nervous, reserved woman who stopped by his compartment yesterday.  He raised an eyebrow at her but she just smiled more widely in return. But her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes as the official recited the standard marriage ceremony, and faltered when it came time to exchange tokens.

 

People used to use rings for the ceremony and some still did, if they had two rings between them.  But as the Ark’s population grew and things got repurposed, the number of available rings dwindled.  Now people just used whatever was small and easily exchanged, and with the passing of 1106 it became less sentimental than ever.  Plenty of couples exchanged their tokens at the ceremony and never touched them again.

 

Which was why Bellamy was startled when Clarke slipped off the oversize watch she was wearing and motioned to his wrist.  She had been wearing it the day before, so it wasn’t just any old thing. She secured it with slightly shaking hands and then bowed her head and let him tie Octavia’s old ribbon in her hair.  Then the smile was back and the grey haired man from the Farm Station announced that he could kiss his bride.

 

His _ bride. _

 

Clarke rested her hands on his forearms and rose on her toes as he bent his head to meet her, intending for it to be just a symbolic brush of lips.  But Clarke met him with her lips slightly parted and kissed him with a force that took his breath away. Her lips were soft and full and without even thinking he met her halfway, cradling the back of her skull.  Something warm pooled in his stomach and he forgot that everyone she knew was watching them.

 

She tasted sweet and sharp at the same time, and then it hit him.  Moonshine.

 

She was drunk.

 

Of course she was.  She was in love with someone else and marrying a stranger.

 

Bellamy broke the kiss and stepped back as Clarke swayed into the space he’d just vacated and the crowd applauded awkwardly.  Clarke linked their arms. “Ready to see our new apartment?” she chirped. Now that he knew he could see the signs— her eyes were glassy and her cheer seemed borderline manic— but Bellamy had little choice but to nod.  

 

They walked past the scrum of people and Wells grabbed his arm, halting their progress.  “She’s drunk,” he hissed. “You touch her, I kill you.”

 

Bellamy shot him a disgusted look and pushed forward.  He was not in the mood to deal with Jaha’s condescension.  He could hear Clarke’s mother calling out after them but Clarke didn’t seem inclined to stop so neither did he.  He let her lead them from the Council chambers to Beta station and compartment 7290.

 

They stepped in and like a light switch, the giggly woman from the Council chambers disappeared.  Clarke’s face fell and she looked around the two room compartment. Bellamy knew she was contemplating how small it was while he marveled at having a separate room for sleeping.  Bellamy closed the door behind them and Clarke turned, her eyes wide.

 

“You should go to sleep,” he said finally, breaking the deafening silence. 

 

Bellamy spent his first night as a married man on the floor.

  
  


Chapter Two

 

Clarke woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a roiling stomach.  She kept her eyes shut tight, because  _ god, she was married. _  A lingering sense of shame made the pressure in her head worse.

 

She was only going to have one shot of moonshine to quell her nerves.  But after one her hands were still shaking, so she took another. And then another, because she was marrying a stranger who maybe hated her, and then another because she’d had an out with an 1106.5 exemption and she didn’t take it, and then another because she saw Finn’s face the day she ended things, heartbroken and pleading.  And then Wells knocked on her door to tell her everyone was waiting so she had no choice but to promise her life away while the floor swayed dangerously underneath her.

 

She rolled over in the unfamiliar bed and opened her eyes.  There was a glass of water and a small packet on the nightstand.  She pushed herself up— her head screamed in protest— and opened the packet.  A familiar scent hit her nostrils and she smiled weakly.  _ Headache powder. _

 

It wasn’t technically legal as all medications were strictly regulated, but the Council turned a blind eye to home remedies like this, made from scraps and traded on the black market.  Clarke poured it into the glass and chugged it down. Her stomach gurgled uncomfortably but she would survive. The floor was cold under her bare feet and her skirt brushed against her knees as she stood.  She probably should have brought a change of clothes to her new compartment before the wedding, but what was done was done. She’d have to stop back at her old place before her shift, which meant seeing her mother.  She wished for the millionth time in the past two years that her father was still alive— that those parts hadn’t malfunctioned and sent him out into the cold depths of space. Things were easier with him around. He sanded off the sharp edges that Clarke and her mother kept catching on, smoothed out their wrinkles and misunderstandings.

 

The main room was deserted.   _ He must work early _ , she thought, although the day she went to meet him he’d claimed to have a shift that evening.  There was so much about Bellamy she didn’t know. In fact, the only thing she did know about him was that his favorite color was possibly grey.   _ He left me headache powder, _ she amended.   _ So he knows where to get it and he knew I would have a headache. _  It wasn’t much to build a marriage on, but it could have been worse.   _ It was kind of him _ .   _ He’s kind.  Maybe. _  There was a bag near the door with her clothes from her old compartment and she wondered who dropped it off.  Her mother, probably, but she wasn’t quite up to musing on how Abby Griffin’s first interaction with her son-in-law had gone so she shrugged her regular clothes back on, filled her glass at the small kitchenette, drained it again, and then slipped her shoes on near the door.

 

Even your wedding wasn’t an excuse to be late to work on the Ark so she hurried through the hallways to med bay, where the day dragged.  Her mother was tied up in surgeries, but Clarke wasn’t cleared for those yet so she spent the day shuffling through her rounds, taking vitals and dispensing medication until the clock clicked to 5pm.  

 

Clarke left before her mother got out of surgery because she just couldn’t face her disapproval (or sadness, because she’d seen the stricken look in her mother’s eyes when Clarke announced her match) and headed back to her old compartment to pack up her sketchbook and pencils.  They were a shocking extravagance on the Ark, and one she only got away with because of her status. It wasn’t a real sketchbook, just a collection of old sheets of paper from books that had been digitized shortly after the Unification of the Ark. Wells had stapled them together for her as a birthday present last year, and she’d managed to scrounge up a few pencils marked for reclamation.

 

Clarke put them in the small bag she’d left in her old bedroom and joined the usual crush of people headed back to their compartments after work.  It felt strange to take the hall that led to Beta station, and she couldn’t help but notice that the walls in Beta seemed dingier than the ones in Alpha.  It was probably a coincidence, but now that she thought about it, maybe it wasn’t. Her husband would probably say it was on purpose, actually.

 

Her  _ husband _ .  

 

She still wasn’t used to that.  He had a sister, too. No one had a sister anymore and Clarke was curious— was it like her friendship with Wells?  Was it something deeper? How had his mother kept her a secret for so long? Why had she chosen to have a second child?  She must have known the risks. What sort of woman was his mother? Reckless? Scared? Brave?

 

She stopped at the closet she and Finn used for their trysts and shoved down the pain the reminder brought back.  The closet, however, still had its uses. It was a rare find on the Ark: a space that wasn’t necessary. Just about every other square centimeter of the Ark had been converted into something  _ useful _ , but this closet— just big enough to fit two people standing up or one sitting down, if she didn’t stretch her legs out all the way— had somehow been overlooked.  Finn swore no one else knew about it, and aside from the time Bellamy found them, he seemed to have been right.

 

She knew it was stupid of them to start something— the chances of being paired together were slim— but Finn was charming and persistent and once she cracked there was no going back.  Falling for Finn was easy and telling him she’d been matched almost killed her, but there was no hope for it. She was married, so they were through. 

 

Maybe love didn’t follow the rules, but Clarke sure as hell did.

  
  


**

  
  


Clarke found that her schedule didn’t align very well with Bellamy’s, and she usually only saw him for maybe an hour or two in the evening, after her shift in medical ended and before he had to leave for his overnight shift.  Conversation during that time was pretty much nonexistent; mostly he read on his pad while she watched old games that reminded her of her father. 

  
  


Sometimes she would catch a glimmer of a different Bellamy underneath his rough exterior, like the time she yelled at a ref and he almost smiled, gently pointing out that not only could the ref not hear her, he’d been dead for over a century.  Clarke rolled her eyes at him and for those few minutes, she thought they could almost be friends. But less than five minutes later he made a snide remark about the Council and they were right back to where they started, as enemies on a field of battle.  Clarke couldn’t figure out which was the real Bellamy: the one who kissed her softly on their wedding day and left her headache powder in the morning, or the one who snarled about politics and seemed bound and determined to hold her personally responsible for every injustice he saw.

 

To be fair, she wasn’t totally blameless.  Sometimes she picked a fight deliberately, if she’d had a trying day or particularly demanding patients.  She hated having to tell someone that they had reached their allotted dose of painkillers, or that their chemotherapy allowance had run out and their cancer would become terminal in a matter of months.  Clarke understood the reasons behind the rationing, but it didn’t make it any easier. She had no control over that, but fighting with Bellamy— that was something she could control. And sometimes she could even win, like the time she baited him into an argument over the way food rations were distributed.  Bellamy had left for work that night with his hands in the air and Clarke had smiled to herself in triumph. 

 

She started stopping at the closet on her way home from work, allowing herself thirty minutes to sketch before she girded her loins to face her husband.  It cut into the amount of time they had to get to know each other, but she had a feeling he would hate her hobby— it was silly and self indulgent— and she wanted to keep this part of herself private for now.  And she liked having the space to just be alone, without the pressure of her job in medical or the awkwardness of being married to someone who didn’t like her very much. It was her safe haven, those thirty silent minutes.

 

And that was how she made it through her first two weeks as a married woman.

  
  
  


Chapter Three

 

“Your boyfriend stopped by,” Bellamy snapped the moment she opened the door after a particularly grueling shift.  He was sitting on one of their two standard-issue chairs, his eyes trained on his pad while a muscle in his jaw ticked.  

 

“What?”  

 

“Finn.  He wanted to see how you are.  Didn’t seem to happy to see me.”  Bellamy’s voice was flat and hard.  “And by the way, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Jaha’s kid that I haven’t raped you.”

 

The words were like a slap in the face.  “What?” she asked again.

 

“Jaha’s son.”

 

“Wells,” she supplied, still frozen on the doorstep to her own home.

 

“Him.  He already warned me when we left the ceremony, but he spent the entire time I cleaned the council chambers yesterday glaring daggers at me.”  He looked up, his dark eyes flashing. “Tell me, princess— is there anyone on this Ark that isn’t in love with you?”

 

Clarke finally found her voice.  “Yeah. You,” she retorted and left, not able to stand another second with him.  She walked blindly for a while, fury pulsing through her veins. She was angry with Finn for showing up, angry with Bellamy for the assumption, and angry with everyone for the mess that 1106 had created.  Genetic diversity might be important for the future, but Clarke wondered if it was really worth several generations of dysfunctional marriages.

 

She was at the Jahas’ compartment before she realized where her feet were taking her.  Clarke knocked and prayed that Thelonius would still be in the council chambers. For once she lucked out and Wells opened the door, his handsome face creased with worry.  “Clarke, are you okay?”

 

She nodded and wiped at the tears she didn’t even realize were falling.  “Can I just...stay here for awhile?”

 

“He’s hurting you, isn’t he?  I’ll  _ kill _ him,” Wells growled and Clarke had to grab him before he pushed past her.

 

“He isn’t, okay?  He’s fine. Well, he’s not fine, but— can I just come in?”

 

Wells stood aside and let her in, but he didn’t look like he believed her.  Clarke curled into a chair and he sat cross legged in front of her. “So he’s that bad, huh?”

 

“Yes.  No. I— I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.  “He’s— I mean, I’ve known him for less than a month, but he’s— he’s not awful.  He left me some headache powder the morning after the wedding, but...god, I can’t explain it.  One minute he’s almost nice, the next he’s snarling and awful.”

 

“You’re not exactly selling this.”

 

“I know,” she admitted.  “But it’s hard, being matched and then having to get married.  We didn’t even really get a chance to know each other, and now we’re married.  We have to have a  _ child _ .”

 

“It’s the law,” Wells said patiently.

 

“Screw the law.”

 

“Clarke,” he warned, “be careful.”

 

She made a face at him.  “They’re not going to float me for being pissed about this law.  There wouldn’t be anyone under thirty left.” Clarke wasn’t privy to all the details about when the Council passed 1106, but she knew debate had been fierce.  Abby was a new council member then— young, and pregnant with Clarke— and had been the driving force behind giving couples two years before removing implants. Other council members wanted to remove implants right away, thinking that having a child would bond couples together, but Abby wanted them to adjust before adding a child to the mix.

 

Clarke assumed that 1106 had done its job and diversified genetics on the Ark, but the cost had been great.  1106 may have solved one problem, but it created hundreds of others. Clarke had once overheard Abby tell Jake that she didn’t think 1106 would be sustainable, and sooner or later, there would be a revolt against the council.

 

“Start from the beginning,” Wells prompted.  “I was worried about you that day, going off with him drunk like that.”

 

Clarke waved his concerns away.  “I told you, he’s fine. I went to bed when we got back and he slept on the floor.  We haven’t talked much, but— he’s not so bad. He can be kind of stand-offish, but I don’t think it’s me.  I think it’s the situation, which...I don’t blame him. He’s already got reasons to hate the council, and then this?”

 

“You’re not on the council.  And he knows that.”

 

“I know--”

 

“Don’t make excuses for him, Clarke,” Wells snapped.  “And get to why you showed up here crying.”

 

“Stop acting like he’s the enemy,” Clarke retorted.

 

“Then stop making excuses for him.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You are.  What you’re saying is I should like him for not being a total jackass and giving you headache powder once.  He doesn’t get a fucking medal for the bare minimum of decency,” Wells snarled.

 

Clarke was on her feet without any memory of standing up.  “That’s not what I’m saying,” she yelled. “I’m saying you’re not giving him a chance.”  Her tears were back, angry and burning in her eyes. 

 

“And why should I?” Wells asked, clearly trying for calm.

 

“Because I— I have to find a way through this,” she said plaintively.  “Somehow, I have to figure out how to have a child with him, and I— I don’t know how.”

 

Wells stood and tried to hug her.  “I’m sorry,” he said, but Clarke twisted away.  It wasn’t Wells’ fault, but she didn’t want to be comforted.  She wanted to like her husband, or failing that, at least have him not hate her.  She wanted Finn to cease existing, because she’d loved him and she couldn’t have him.  She wanted her father back, and she wanted to be able to talk to her mother without Abby creasing her forehead in concern.  She wanted to live a life without 1106, and there was nothing Wells could do to change that.

 

“Don’t.  Just don’t,” she said.  She pushed past him and left to walk aimlessly around the Ark, hoping no one noticed her tears.

 

Clarke had just wiped her cheeks when someone grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the flow of traffic. 

 

“You okay?”  Bellamy’s words sounded sincere, his eyes concerned.

 

Clarke snapped.  She jerked her arm away and stepped closer to him, furious.  

“Am I okay?  No, I’m not fucking okay.  I have a husband that hates me, and thanks to him my best friend hates me too.”  

 

Bellamy stopped looking worried and started looking angry.  “How the fuck is your fight with Jaha my fault?”

 

“How do you know it was Wells?”

 

He rolled his eyes at her.  “We’re in Alpha Station. He’s been acting like your guard dog since our wedding.  I put two and two together.”

 

“Well, we fought because you can’t bear to be decent to me for more than an hour,” Clarke said, pressing her lips together into a thin line.

 

“I’m sorry that I don’t really feel like watching another woman in my life get floated.”

 

Clarke’s eyebrows shot up, her arms crossed firmly across her chest.  “You think I’m that stupid?”

 

“I’m saying I don’t know you well enough to know whether or not you are that stupid.  But if he’s showing up at our compartment, maybe you are.” Bellamy mirrored her posture and they stood almost nose to nose.

 

“I didn’t ask him to come by,” she protested.

 

“But you didn’t tell him not to, either,” Bellamy countered.

 

“I can’t control him.  But I didn’t ask him, okay?”

 

Bellamy nodded slowly.  “Fair enough,” he said, although his tone was hard to read.  “And Jaha?”

 

“I told him you haven’t hurt me.”

 

“I haven’t hurt you,” he repeated.  “Such a ringing endorsement.”

 

“Well, what do you want me to say?  ‘Most of the time he pretends I don’t exist, and when he doesn’t we’re usually arguing?’  I told him you haven’t touched me, since that was your main concern. He’ll probably keep glaring at you, but I can’t stop him from doing that either.”  She stepped back into the rush of people in the hallway. “I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Clarke turned to go, but Bellamy’s words stopped her.  “I don’t hate you,” he called.

 

She spun around and let people bump past her.  “What?”

 

They were surrounded by crowds, but she barely noticed them.  All she saw was Bellamy standing two feet away, his dark eyes serious.  “I don’t hate you, okay? I don’t like you very much, but I don’t hate you.”

 

An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of her lips.  “I don’t hate you either,” she called back, and felt his eyes on her back as she turned and walked away.

 

**

 

Sweeping. 

 

That was how Bellamy spent his nights; how he’d spent his nights ever since the day Octavia got caught.  That much sweeping would have been mind-numbingly boring for most people, but for Bellamy, it had the opposite effect: it left him alone with his thoughts and that was a dangerous proposition.  Bellamy was used to keeping things to himself; it was how his family survived, so it wasn’t being alone that was the problem. But this was different— he wondered if the Council knew he would torment himself every night with nothing to distract him, if this was part of his punishment.    _ Of course that’s not true _ , he could almost hear Clarke’s voice say.  

 

_ Clarke _ .

 

He hated himself for making her cry, and he hated himself more for caring that she was crying.  He’d known where her heart belonged since the day they got married, because he’d seen the way she looked at Finn the day he caught them together.  She’d been contrite but giddy, stealing glances at Finn out of the corner of her eye while she apologized and swore it would never happen again. He’d never seen the princess of the Ark that happy, and he never would again because the Council had ruined both their lives.

 

1106 was a stupid fucking rule, needs of future generations aside.  Forcing people into marriages they didn’t want with people they didn’t know only created problems.  Problems like the one he was facing now: being married to a woman who was in love with someone else, and what’s worse, he didn’t blame her.  Finn might be poor, but he had the easy manner of someone who didn’t worry about the future. He was optimistic, charming, and carefree in a way Bellamy never had been, even before Octavia arrived.  Finn was exactly who Clarke was made for, not a jackass like him.

 

What he couldn’t figure out was why he cared.  They could figure out how to conceive when the time came— maybe her mother could intervene and declare that they needed medical intervention.  The child would be DNA tested at birth, and as long as the child was theirs, there was no reason she couldn’t be sterilized and carry on with Finn.  If she was discreet and he kept her secret, there was no reason to fear. They would be stuck sharing a compartment and a child for the rest of their lives, but Bellamy was strangely fine with that concept.  If they could get past their constant arguments, he had a hunch they might work. Maybe not as lovers, but at least as partners. Every once and awhile he’d forget he was trying to be guarded and chuckle at her constant barrage of insults towards ancient referees, and she’d laugh too, and for those moments, he felt like there was hope.

 

But he’d started them off on the wrong foot, and he wasn’t sure how to fix that.  

  
  


Chapter Four

 

“Can I help you?”  Clarke asked.

 

The guard who just entered med bay shifted uncomfortably.  “We need a fill in for the Sky Box. Doctor Warren called in sick today, and--”

 

“--you need someone to make the rounds,” Clarke finished.  “I can be up to the Sky Box in 20— is that okay, or do you have any emergent cases?”

 

“Should be fine,” the guard said.  “I have to get back to my post. Find Bergen when you get there and he’ll show you the list.”

 

Clarke ducked out of med bay just after the guard and headed straight for her art supplies, a germ of an idea growing at the back of her mind.  It was stupid, but she might only have this one chance. And ever since their talk in the hallway, things had...thawed slightly with her and Bellamy.  They still fought, but not nearly as often, and sometimes it felt almost like banter instead of an argument. He was quick, and she usually agreed with his point of view but something pushed her to take the opposite side, just to see what he would say. She slipped into the closet and tore out a piece of paper, tucking it into her bra and slipping a pencil into her pocket.  

 

She arrived at the Sky Box with a few minutes to spare and the guard showed her to Warren’s office and the day’s list of patients.  Most seemed to have run of the mill complaints— coughs, headaches, vision problems, the usual side effects of being placed in a lower priority section.  Less oxygen led to some minor health problems for the delinquents, but it meant more resources for the rest of the Ark so the council had deemed it an acceptable sacrifice.  

 

Like the rest of the Ark the cells were little more than grim grey boxes, but somehow it seemed worse than other places— more desolate, more hopeless.  Clarke felt the air sucked from her lungs as she imagined being stuck in a place like this with nothing more than the hope that someday you wouldn’t be executed.

 

She didn’t know how the other kids handled it.

 

Her first patient was a gangly boy with goggles and a sprained wrist, an injury he refused to explain but he didn’t seem skittish around the guards so she reasoned he he probably did it himself.  He was almost unnaturally cheerful considering his position, but after seeing six more delinquents with increasingly glum expressions she decided she’d rather have Jasper back. There wasn’t much she could do for oxygen deprivation in the end, so her trip was rather short.  The last patient left and Clarke frowned at her pad. “Guard— could you bring me Blake? Cell 207?”

 

“She’s not on the list,” Bergen protested.

 

“There’s a note in her file from Warren that’s worrying me and I have some time left on my shift.  Go bring me Blake.”

 

Two minutes later, Bergen thrust a defiant looking girl into the office.  “I’m not sick,” she snarled and Clarke had to fight her smile. This was definitely Bellamy’s sister, all right.

 

“Guard, do you mind waiting outside?” Clarke asked.

 

“Protocol says—”

 

“I have to check her implant.  She will not be comfortable with you in here, so outside.”

 

“My implant’s  _ fine _ ,” Octavia hissed.  “And where the hell is Warren?  Who the hell are you?”

 

“I’m sorry, but don’t you want—” Bergen protested.

 

“I can handle the patient.  Outside,” Clarke repeated calmly.

 

Bergen reluctantly followed her orders.  The moment the door clicked shut Clarke grabbed Octavia by the arm and pushed her onto the stool near Warren’s desk.  “We don’t have much time. I’m Bellamy’s wife.”

 

“You’re  _ who? _ ”

 

“His wife.”  Clarke handed her the pencil and pulled out the paper.  Most of it was covered in printing and sketches but the margins were still clear.  “The guard will be back soon, so if you’ve got something to tell your brother, write.”

 

Octavia stared at her with eyes that were several shades lighter than Bellamy’s, unmoving.

 

“Oh god, can you— do you know how to—” 

 

“— I know how to write,” Octavia snapped.  “I’m just trying to figure out what your game is.”

 

Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a little sick of defending her motives to Blakes.  “I’m trying to help you get a message to your brother, my  _ husband _ , because I know he hasn’t seen you since you were arrested.  Now write.”

 

Octavia narrowed her eyes but finally picked up the pencil and started writing.  Clarke stood by the door until she heard footsteps and then hurried over to snatch the note from Octavia and stuff it in her pocket.  “Okay Blake, everything’s in order now,” she said a little too loudly when Bergen entered the office. Bergen took Octavia by the arm and pulled her out, leaving Clarke alone with her pounding heart.

 

Clarke stopped by the closet on her way home from work.  She liked having the time to herself, even if things weren’t quite so tense in her compartment anymore.  If she arrived home a half hour later than usual every day, Bellamy would just assume this was her schedule and not question it.  She settled down with her book, the single bulb above her giving off a harsh light, and started to sketch. She was halfway through her sketch of a hand when she realized she was drawing Bellamy’s, from the freckles across the back to the scar on his thumb.  She hadn’t realized she had even known how his hands looked, much less those details. But the hand was his, no doubt. Uncomfortable, she closed her sketchbook and waited until the hallway outside was quiet to leave.

 

Bellamy wasn’t home when she arrived, so Clarke left the note in the kitchenette before she went to bed.  As Clarke drifted off, she resolved to talk to her mother and see if she could pressure someone into rearranging Bellamy’s work shifts.  She needed to get to know him better, and they couldn’t with their current schedules.

 

“Clarke?” Bellamy whispered, shaking her shoulder lightly.  “What is this?”

 

Clarke sat up, bleary and confused.  “What?” She turned on the light near the bed and squinted at the paper Bellamy held up.  “That’s a note from your sister. I saw her today.”

 

“You saw her?”  She saw the fear cross his face and hastened to explain.

 

“She’s fine.  The regular doctor in the Sky Box was out today, so I filled in and asked to see Octavia so she could write that.” 

 

“She’s— she’s okay?”

 

“She’s fine.  Kind of has an attitude, but for some reason I’m not surprised.”

 

Bellamy gave her a lopsided smile.  “That’s O for you. Sorry to wake you— I just— I needed to know.  But...thanks. I mean it.”

 

Clarke smiled back.  “I’ll try and fill in for the regular doctor whenever I can.  Keep an eye on her for you.”

 

“I’ll write something for her, if that’s— if you think you can get it to her?”

 

“Of course,” Clarke said.  “Just leave it on the counter.”

 

Bellamy headed toward the bedroom door.  “Thanks,” he whispered one last time, and the word wrapped itself around her like a blanket.  It warmed her from the inside out, and the smile didn’t leave her face as she laid back down.

 

**

 

That marked a turning point in their relationship.  The next night when Clarke returned from work and sketching, Bellamy smiled as she walked through the door, and somehow...they started talking.  Really talking, not arguing, or bickering, or ignoring each other. Just talking. He asked about her day and then before she knew it, he was glancing at the clock with a start and realizing he was almost late for his shift.

 

After that, Clarke started almost looking forward to coming home after her shift.  Bellamy seemed to be making a concerted effort to talk to her, and the day she whined about Beta station being inconveniently far from med bay, he managed to not make a sarcastic comment about her wealth in return.  She wondered who she could talk to about getting his shift moved to days because the hour they had together wasn’t nearly enough. She even started shaving a few minutes off of her drawing time, because coming home to someone who smiled that heart-stopping smile at her gave her something to look forward to.  

 

“I’d like to be assigned to the Sky Box,” she told her mother two weeks after she first met Octavia.  

 

Abby tossed her braid back over her shoulder and glanced down at her tablet, typing in a few notes on their latest patient.  “Oh really? Any particular reason?”

 

“I filled in for Warren a few weeks ago.  I liked it, and I think— I think it would be easier for the kids having someone their age, you know?”

 

“Mmmhmm,” she replied, still not looking up from her notes.  “And this has nothing to do with your husband’s sister being in there, I suppose?”

 

Clarke made the split second decision not to lie.  It wasn’t a crime to want to see someone in the Sky Box, after all.  “I met Octavia when I was there,” she admitted. “I’d like to be able to keep an eye on her.”

 

“Is something going on?”

 

“No, I just— Bellamy’s not allowed to see her, and I know he worries.  And I can have access, so...why not?”

 

Her mother looked up, her eyes searching Clarke’s.  “How are things with him?” she asked. They had treaded lightly around the subject since Clarke received her match.  Clarke knew her mother worried, but she also knew Abby didn’t like to push. They had been at odds ever since her father died, and Abby clearly didn’t want to risk their tentative truce.

 

“They’re good,” Clarke said arily, pulling out her own tablet to avoid meeting her mother’s gaze.  “He’s— he’s...he’s hard to get to know, but underneath, I think— I think he’s kind,” Clarke said finally.  She wanted to say that he was nice, but that didn’t quite fit. Wells was nice; Finn was nice. Bellamy was...Bellamy.  He could be arrogant and sarcastic and he could get under her skin with just a few words, but at the same time he could be warm and smart and funny.  

Abby nodded slowly.  “I’ll talk to Warren.  I don’t think he’s particularly attached to that position, so there’s no reason you can’t switch.  But— be careful, Clarke.”

 

“Most of them aren’t dangerous,” she said with a wave of her hand.

 

Abby’s lips turned down slightly.  “It’s not that. It’s...Octavia’s case is by no means settled.”

 

Clarke’s eyes widened.  “You’re seriously going to float her?  For being  _ born?” _

 

Abby glanced around and motioned for Clarke to follow her into the small room that served as her office.  “It’s more complicated than that, sweetie. If people knew that a second child might live, they might—”

 

“You’re going to kill and innocent girl to make an  _ example?” _  Clarke couldn’t believe her ears, and Bellamy’s jibes started to make sense.   _ Things aren’t as easy for everyone else as they are for you _ , he’d said once.   _ You get the benefit of the doubt.  We don’t. _

 

Abby closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself.  “I don’t want to. But it’s come up. With the way things are now...life is precarious up here.  We can’t make too many allowances, or else—I’m just saying. Be careful. Don’t get too attached.”

 

Clarke threw a withering look at her mother.  “If you kill her, we’re done,” she said flatly.  

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	2. The Bachelor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by UnReal

Clarke threw back another tequila shot and tugged her black strapless dress up a little higher.  The prince— which was the gag inducing title the producers kept calling the square-jawed idiot she and nineteen other women were supposed to fight over— from  _ One True Love _ was supposed to arrive an hour ago, but now the crew was scrambling, whispering to each other in hushed tones while the striking brunette behind the camera glared daggers at Clarke.  The other contestants were sipping their champagne nervously and trading rumors about the delay. Currently, the top guesses were “his private jet from New York has been delayed,” and “the producers found out he killed someone and now the whole season is cancelled.”

 

Personally, she didn’t give a damn why the prince was running late.  He could just decide not to show up for all she cared— she’d just figure out a new way to blow her life up.  But “daughter of a senator becomes drunken trainwreck on a reality show” had seemed like the simplest, most direct way of going nuclear, so she hoped that wherever he was, he got his dumbass shit together and quick.  Because the longer she waited, the more likely she was to have second thoughts about this, the more likely the voice in her head that sounded exactly like her mother would start saying  _ Clarke, this isn’t necessary.  You don’t have to do this. Come home. _

 

It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt her mother.  Not really. Kane was a hell of a chief of staff— in addition to being her almost-step-father— and Clarke was confident he could spin this in a way that wouldn’t hurt Abby long-term.  Besides, she wasn’t up for reelection for another five years, and that was practically decades in pop culture terms. Clarke could flame out in a blaze of drunken glory and be no more than a footnote by the next election cycle.

 

And really, Clarke felt like she had every reason to burn her life to the ground.  In the past three years she’d lost her father and her best friend, and gone through the double whammy of Finn and Lexa.  She’d thought the lowest her life would get would be having photos published of her stumbling out of a club, crying because her boyfriend actually had a fiancee out in California, but then she met Lexa.

 

Her mother had taken the whole “having a girlfriend” thing in stride, but it was Lexa in particular she had a problem with.   _ She’s changing you, _ her mother had protested.   _ When you’re with her I don’t even recognize you _ .  Abby had failed to grasp that that was the whole  _ point _ .  She didn’t want to be Clarke Griffin anymore.  The Clarke Griffin who had dreamed of working for Doctors Without Borders and loved UNC basketball had a father named Jake and a best friend named Wells, and now she didn’t have either of them and she just couldn’t bring herself to be the same person she was when she was nineteen.  So she threw herself into being someone totally different. Someone with tattoos, someone who rode behind her girlfriend on her motorcycle, wind tearing at her hair.

 

And then she left Lexa.

 

It wasn’t even over something big.  They’d been fighting for weeks— months, really— and one day she just realized she couldn’t do it anymore, so she ended it. 

 

Clarke had muddled on for a few months, until she saw an ad for  _ One True Love _ casting and decided it was time to burn her life to the ground and start again.

 

The crew burst back into action and hustled the contestants into a semi circle in front of the mansion just as a limo pulled up.  Clarke ignored the frantic signals from the production assistant with dark hair and tossed back one last shot before she took her place.  Lights came up and the cameras sprang into action, and it was time.

 

Time to light the match.

 

**

 

Clarke’s attention had begun to wander by the time the show was ready to reveal the prince.  They had to do three takes of Emerson introducing the girls to get the right amount of “enthusiasm,” and then the executive producer had come onto the set to complain about the way the lights were making the girls squint too much.  Resetting the lights took another twenty minutes during which Clarke helped herself to another glass of champagne, then one last take, and then finally—  _ finally—  _ they were ready for his reveal.

 

“He’s a bit different from your usual prince,” Emerson told the camera with a smarmy smile.  “He wasn’t born with a silver spoon, but instead earned himself a silver star. He doesn’t have a trust fund, and he’s never set foot on a yacht. He’s a regular, salt of the earth kind of man, and a real American hero to boot.  Ladies, I am proud to introduce to you Captain Bellamy Blake!”

 

Emerson stepped back and the door to the limo swung open.  There was a collective intake of breath from the rest of the contestants, and then two legs emerged, followed by a besuited torso and finally a dark crop of curls.  Clarke let out her own gasp just a half a second too late, because he was...well, he was  _ not _ what she was expecting.

 

Who she was expecting was this: a square jawed white guy with blond— or maybe light brown— hair, vacant eyes and a dumb, bro-ish disposition.  And maybe this Bellamy would turn out to be a secret frat boy (in fact, she’d be surprised if he wasn’t) but he definitely didn’t look the part.  He was...handsome. Honest to god handsome, and not in a bland, designed-by-committee way. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence, and his curls were...well, if she were the sort of woman to describe hair as “irresistible,” that’s exactly what she’d call them.  He flashed a smile at them and Clarke hated to admit it, but she swooned right along with everyone else.

 

“Cut,” Cage yelled and then pressed on his earpiece to have a quick conversation with someone Clarke couldn’t see.  Bellamy’s smile vanished, replaced by a look that could only be described as loathing. He glared at Cage until the producer finished his conversation and then had a whispered fight with him over something Clarke didn’t quite catch.  The camerawoman abandoned her post to tug Bellamy away, stopping a convenient five feet from where Clarke was leaning against a marble column.

 

“You knew what you signed up for,” the camerawoman hissed.

 

“I told him my military record was off limits,” Bellamy threw back.

 

The camerawoman rolled her eyes.  “And I told you not to believe a damn word they tell you.  If you want the money, you have to play by their rules.”

 

“Cage is—”

 

“Cage is a demon from the underworld,” she finished.  “And I told you that.”

 

“But—”

 

“But nothing.  You’re the one who told me you’d do anything to make enough money to wipe out Octavia’s loans, so if you suck it up, you get ten weeks of women fawning over you and you’ll have half a million dollars, free and clear.  It’s not rocket science.” The camerawoman glanced in Clarke’s direction, so Clarke pretended to be busy studying her cuticles.

 

“Who is that?” Bellamy asked, quietly this time.  “You keep glaring at her like you’re willing her to spontaneously combust.”

 

“That is— that’s the reason Finn and I ended,” she hissed, and Clarke’s stomach dropped.

 

_ Raven Reyes. _  Clarke had known her name, but never mustered the courage to look her up on Facebook.  It was three years ago and still the humiliation burned like acid through her veins. Being with Finn had seemed so easy, so right.  Especially after she lost Wells, Finn had been a bright spot in her increasingly dark life. He laughed easily and he believed in her, so she trusted him.

 

She trusted him right up until the night she picked up his phone to take a goofy photo of herself and found four texts from one Raven Reyes asking what time his flight was getting in the next day.  What followed was an extremely public fight, followed by a supremely humiliating series of photos as the paparazzi outside the nightclub caught her drunkenly leaning on Monty and sobbing. Clarke refused to take his calls from that night on, and she’d never found out what happened between him and Raven, or if indeed Raven even knew.  But now those looks made perfect sense, because Clarke would do the same thing if the situations were reversed. 

 

An associate producer grabbed Bellamy by the sleeve and tugged him back into position and Raven returned to her camera.  A production assistant with dark brown hair and big brown eyes shooed Clarke and the rest of the women towards the pool, where there was more alcohol waiting.  Clarke could already tell that this was the show’s MO— get the women liquored up and hope for drama. Well, she could drink with the best of them and wasn’t particularly interested in cat fighting, so she accepted a margarita from the PA and set off to get to know her competitors while she waited for her one on one time with Bellamy.

 

Most of the women were exactly what she was expecting— a mixture of models and actresses, hoping that they’d be noticed by someone who mattered.  They weren’t unkind, although a few were clearly disappointed he wasn’t the usual trust fund bro, but only two really stood out in her mind.

 

Echo was the sort of long-limbed beauty Clarke herself would have wanted to seduce, but despite her best efforts the brunette didn’t seem to realize she was flirting.  She was sharp in almost every way, her eyes roving the other contestants constantly, her answers to Clarke’s questions perfunctory.  _ She’s one to watch out for _ , Clarke thought, before remembering that she actually had no interest in winning this thing.

 

Gina, on the other hand, was a very different story.  She was sweetness and light, chatting happily with the other women and seeming very unconcerned with the fact that they were supposed to be fighting over Bellamy, not bonding over their hair frizzing in the heat.  She even hugged Clarke hello, remembering her from the makeup trailer. “Our stations are right next to each other,” she explained. “Isn’t this fun?”

 

Clarke found herself smiling back.  “It is, yeah. Kind of silly, but fun.  What made you decide to do this?” A camera circled around towards them and she remembered they were always being watched.

 

“Just thought it would be fun, you know?  Who knows, I might even like him. He is handsome, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” Clarke agreed, and couldn’t help but smile back.  Gina’s smile was infectious and Clarke decided right then and there that if Bellamy Blake knew what was good for him, he’d choose Gina.

 

**

 

“So did you mean to yell at him?” the producer prompted.

 

“I’m sorry, what?”  Clarke blinked back the haze of red that seemed to be coloring her vision and focused on the producer.  She had thick dark brown hair, glasses, and a calculating look that Clarke didn’t like at all.

 

“Bellamy.  Did you mean to shout at him?”

 

_ Of course I didn’t _ .  She wasn’t even sure how it started.  She’d taken her place in the short line to meet Bellamy, completely at ease, and when the PA motioned her to the loveseat next to him Clarke figured they’d make small talk and she’d either make it to the next round or not.  She didn’t care much either way, and Bellamy smiled charmingly at her when she sat down.

 

And then everything went to hell.  She shook his hand and introduced herself and his eyes lit up at her last name.  “Griffin? You’re not related to Senator Abby Griffin, are you?” he asked, somehow zeroing in on the one thing she didn’t want to talk about.  She didn’t even notice that it was weird he made that connection on his own.

 

“She’s my mom.”

 

He tipped his head to the side.  “She voted to send me to Iraq.”

 

“I wasn’t aware your name was on the bill,” Clarke bristled.  She didn’t always agree with her mother, but she wasn’t about to let someone else criticize her, especially on TV.  “It wasn’t personal.”

 

“Well, it’s never personal for people like you, is it?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

His eyes raked her body.  “You’re wearing diamond earrings, a matching tennis bracelet, and shoes that cost probably as much as my monthly rent.  People like you start wars that people like me have to fight in. You have a choice. I didn’t.”

 

“I wasn’t aware they reinstated the draft,” she said with narrowed eyes.  

 

He gave an ugly laugh.  “So that’s your defense, princess?”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“Please.  You’re nothing but a spoiled little princess living off daddy’s money,” he scoffed, and that was the last thing Clarke heard clearly. 

 

Her heart pounded in her ears and she started shouting.  She wasn’t even entirely sure what she said, although she was pretty sure the words  _ don’t you ever talk about my father _ had come out of her mouth at one point.  A PA had to drag her away from him, and now that the rage was fading a tinge of humiliation started to seep in.  She wanted to blow her life up on her own terms, not because she lost control of her temper. At least he’d shouted back, so she wasn’t alone in her humiliation.  It wasn’t a lot of comfort, but it was something.

 

“Did you mean it when you said he had no right to judge you?” Lorelai asked.

 

“Yes,” Clarke said, deciding to take control of her story for whatever it was worth.  “There’s an argument to be had about the class divisions in this country driving people with less means to turn to the military, but my mother’s decisions in the senate are not to blame for that.”

 

Lorelai kept going, prodding her in an attempt to make her lose control again, but Clarke refused to take the bait.  She gave vague, noncommittal answers until she was dismissed with an annoyed wave. 

 

Clarke pulled her microphone pack off as she walked away and left it on a counter in the mansion, skirting the crew that was setting up for the coronation ceremony.  Clarke had been one of the last few women to meet him, but if her experience earlier in the day was any indication, it would be awhile before she was needed again. Her foot tangled on a cord and she stumbled, her hand shooting out to steady herself but hitting someone else instead.

 

“Sorry about tha—” she stopped and stared, Raven staring back at her.  “Raven,” she managed, and the other woman’s dark eyes flashed with annoyance.  “I’m—”

 

“I know who you are.”

 

Clarke’s anger flared again, because seriously, this day was the worst. “I didn’t know, okay?” she snapped.  “I had no idea you two were engaged. None. And I ended it the second I found out.”

 

“Whatever,” Raven said and rolled her eyes.

 

“Hey,” Clarke said, and grabbed her elbow.  “I’m really sorry, okay? I didn’t know.”

 

Raven cast a searching look at her and pursed her lips.  “Okay,” she said tightly and glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t ever trust Tsing or Cage.  Or really, anyone involved in production. They’re already planning on giving you the Bitch Edit.” 

 

Clarke rolled her eyes.  “Figures. Anyone else I should watch out for?”

 

“You can pretty much trust the crew.  We don’t give a shit about this, really.  But production...be careful.”

 

“Thanks,” Clarke said with a hesitant smile.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Raven said with just a little flicker of a grin.  

 

A little while later Clarke was once again corralled by the skinny PA— Fox, she said her name was— into a line.  The producers arranged them on the risers in front of the mansion, makeup came out to make sure no one was too shiny, and then Emerson needed two takes to get his introduction of Bellamy right.  Then,  _ finally _ , it was time for him to start handing out the crowns.

 

Literal, actual, crowns.  

 

Given his sneer about her being a princess, Clarke was relieved there was absolutely no way he’d choose her.  She could fly home tonight, kick off her heels, and have Monty bring Rosalind Franklin back for some well-deserved kitty snuggles.  Bellamy starting listing the names of the women he’d chosen, placing a tiara from a red velvet cushion on their heads with a smile that she would have categorized as sweet before she learned he was, in fact, the Actual Worst.

 

Gina was called first, and Echo made the cut a few names later.  Clarke had stopped listening by the time she heard her name. She startled and looked up, disbelieving, and Bellamy gave her a mocking smirk from over Emerson’s shoulder.  She teetered up to his stage and lifted her chin defiantly as he placed the crown on her head. “I think we have a few more arguments in us before I’m ready to let you go, princess,” he said, and it almost sounded sincere. Except she saw the gleam in his eye.

 

_ Asshole _ .

 

But she smiled back sweetly, and managed to hide her shock when he took her hand and pressed a delicate kiss to her knuckles.  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she simpered back and held his gaze until he looked away.

 

If he wanted to play games, she’d make sure she won.

  
  
  


Chapter Two

 

“On your mark, get set...go!” A starter pistol went off and Clarke surged forward.  She dove into the muddy pit without any hesitation and started army crawling, keeping her belly as close to the ground as she could to avoid the barbed wire strung across the course.  She was the third one out from the obstacle and jumped to her feet. Echo and Roma both easily cleared the bar set ten yards in front of them while Clarke rolled under it and was hot on Roma’s heels when they hit the climbing rope.  Clarke hauled herself up, hand over hand, and jumped to the platform while Roma was still a good five feet from the top. 

 

Echo, on the other hand, had already climbed down the platform and was quick-stepping through the tires.  Clarke swung onto the ladder and then looked up when a pair of feet hit the platform. To her surprise Gina had beaten Roma up the rope, and when Clarke sprinted through the next obstacle Gina pulled even with her.  

 

The last obstacle was a rock wall.  Gina jumped and found a handhold several feet up but when Clarke tried she only managed to scrape her nails against the plastic rock.  Echo had climbed to the top of the platform by the time Clarke had a solid grip, and Gina finished before she was quite halfway up the wall.  But Clarke still managed a respectable third place, with Roma coming in not too long after her. She watched Bellamy applauding politely from the sidelines and wondered exactly how “watching them run an obstacle course” counted as a group date.

 

Luna from the makeup trailer climbed up to make sure they all looked attractively mud splattered.  “Hold still,” she instructed Gina, who grinned apologetically and let Luna wipe a smear of dirt under her eye.  Cage appeared at the top of the ladder, arrogant and smug, and cast a critical eye at each woman in turn.

 

Bellamy climbed the ladder next, wearing camo pants and a white shirt that stood out in stark contrast to his skin.  “Bellamy, in the middle there. I want Echo on your left and Clarke on your right, and then...Gina, you next to Clarke and Roma on the other side of Echo,” he ordered.

 

“Gina came in second,” Bellamy argued as Echo took her place.  “Shouldn’t she be on my other side?”

 

Cage sighed with exasperation.  “This is about optics, Blake. Ladies, take your places.”  

 

Emerson and another camera operator joined them on the crowded platform and Echo snuggled into Bellamy’s side.  Clarke did the same, and smiled sweetly at him when he cast her a dirty look. “These four women have proven that they have what it takes to make it in the army, haven’t they, Bellamy?” Emerson began.

 

Bellamy sighed inaudibly.  “They ran a good race,” he said genially, but with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“And what about Clarke here?  There were quite some, shall we say, sparks between you two on your first night.  Were you surprised to see her so determined to win one on one time with you?” 

 

_ I’m really just incapable of not being competitive _ , she wanted to shout, but she kept the smile plastered on her face and tipped her chin up adoringly.

 

“Actually, I would expect nothing less from her,” he said, and Clarke searched his face for a hint of mockery, but he was clearly a pro at this.

 

“And Clarke?  What motivated you?”

 

“I’m always up for a challenge,” she grinned.  Emerson moved on to Echo, who purred seductively, and then Gina, who simultaneously won and broke Clarke’s heart by cheerfully saying she just wanted to do her best.   _ You deserve better than this shitshow, _ Clarke wanted to scream, but Emerson wrapped up his smarmy little bit and Echo and Bellamy departed to share a little one-on-one time, which was Echo’s prize for coming in first.

 

“God, I’m so disgusting,” Gina said as she fell into step beside Clarke, switching off her microphone pack.  “But you did so awesome out there.”

 

“You too,” Clarke said genuinely.  “You kicked my ass on the rock wall.”

 

“I climb,” Gina said with a shrug.  “It’s my thing. God, I would kill for a shower, but my roommate like, lives in the bathroom.”

 

“My roommate got sent home last week, so you can use mine if you want,” Clarke offered.  She couldn’t help it— Gina’s sweetness had won her over. And Clarke’s showers tended to be fast and perfunctory.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.  You can even use it first.  Second door on the left.” They would still have to do their confessionals with a producer, but they generally wanted them to be cleaned up and camera ready for those.  And Clarke wanted any excuse to delay that, because anything she said would be edited into oblivion anyway.

 

“God, you’re the best,” Gina said, and Clarke let her pull ahead.  Raven was tinkering with a camera and had caught her eye.

 

“Follow me,” Raven ordered, and led her down a hallway towards the production offices.  Raven looked around to make sure no one else was in the area and then ducked into what Clarke thought was a closet.

 

Well, it was a closet.  But it was a closet with a sleeping bag, several pillows, and mountains of...stuff.

 

“This is where the crew crashes if we’re on a night shoot or shit is taking too long or something.  And I know they confiscated your phone, but here,” Raven said, and slapped a phone into Clarke’s hand.  “It’s an old one of mine with a new SIM card. It’s got unlimited data so if you’re going insane, you can...check facebook, or whatever, as long as you don’t post anything and or take it out of the cave.”

Clarke looked up, amazed.  “Why?”

 

Raven shifted from foot to foot.  “Because we both got screwed by the same guy.  And because I’ve seen this show chew up and spit out a few too many women. Just make sure no one sees you coming in here, and if you get caught, you found this on your own, okay?”

 

“Thanks,” Clarke said, and Raven flashed her a brilliant smile.

 

“I should get back.  They’re setting up for the group date confessionals, and Fox is probably losing her mind looking for you.”

 

But when Clarke left the closet a few minutes after Raven it wasn’t Fox who found her, but Luna.  “Have you seen Gina? They want her for a confessional.”

 

“She’s showering in my room,” Clarke replied.  “I’ll send her down when she’s done.”

 

Gina was just stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped tightly around her bust, her hair already springing back into curls.  “Luna’s looking for you,” she said, and Gina startled.

 

“Shit, you scared me,” Gina said.  “What did she want?”

 

“I assume she was going to touch up your makeup before the confessional.”

 

“Oh, right, duh.  Well, the shower is all yours.  Thanks again,” Gina said, and darted out the door and back to her room.

 

Clarke heard a commotion outside and looked out the window to see Bellamy and Echo walking back onto the pool deck.  They were close but not too close to each other, and she wondered again what they’d done during their solo date.

 

And then she wondered why she cared.

 

**

 

Miraculously, Clarke made it through the next week’s cuts despite not distinguishing herself at all aside from coming in third in a four person race.  Bellamy smiled at her during the coronation ceremony and she smiled acidly back, but that was their only real interaction that week. Mostly they laid around out by the pool and drank, because as it turned out, behind the scenes reality shows weren’t just highly produced, they were  _ boring _ .

 

Bellamy still had sixteen women vying for his attention, and the obstacle course was only the first of four group dates he’d been on, with the winner of each getting to spend time with him.  He stayed on the third floor of the mansion and had a separate, back staircase so really, this was just an extended vacation for Clarke interrupted occasionally by a lighting crew.

 

Two days after the eliminations, however, Fox knocked on her door to tell her that she was up for another group date, but this time the setting was a surprise. “Don’t I get a hint about what to wear?” she asked, and Fox bit her lip.

 

“No?  Sorry, it’s just— no, it’s a surprise.  I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but... you want to look nice, okay?  Think fancy. Really fancy.”

 

_ Think fancy _ .  It was only three in the afternoon, but  _ fancy _ probably meant they were doing something like dinner or dancing.  Or possibly a hot air balloon ride, because this show was a nightmare and Clarke thoroughly regretted her decision to sign up for this.  She should have just gotten drunk and yelled about being bi during a fundraiser or something— that would take less effort and require zero interaction with Bellamy, who was sure to be a dick during whatever it was they were doing today.

 

Clarke flipped through the dresses she’d brought and chose a fitted, light pink number that did great things for her boobs and even better things for her ass. Cream heels and pearls finished the look because if Bellamy was going to sneer at her money she might as well look the part.

 

Clarke caught sight of Gina’s curls disappearing into a limo when she arrived at the driveway, but Tsing shuffled Clarke into the next car before she could call out.  “I’m on my own?” Clarke asked when Tsing signaled the driver. “Any reason?”

 

“Logistics,” Tsing said sharply, and that was that.  They drove in silence for ten minutes and then rolled to a stop.  Clarke’s heels sunk into the soft grass when she opened the door to...a field.

 

They were in a field.  With haybales. And she was dressed for a fancy, candlelight dinner.

 

Gina and the other two contestants were in jeans, flannel shirts, and in the case of the redhead, cowboy boots.

 

_ Think fancy _ .  Clarke was going to murder Fox.  Or, given the smirk spreading across Lorelai’s face, she’d kill Tsing instead.  This humiliation had her prints all over it, so Clarke squared her shoulders and joined the other women.  

 

“What happened?  Didn’t they tell you we’re—” Gina started, but Emerson cleared his throat and threw her a nasty look, so Clarke didn’t get to find out what they were doing just yet.

 

“Bellamy has chosen these four beautiful women to join him in one of his favorite hobbies-- sharp shooting,” Emerson said with a wave towards them.  Clarke stifled a snort, because somehow she suspected this was not his idea. And anything that made Bellamy uncomfortable made her happy.

 

“He’ll be helping them assemble and safely fire a weapon, and the best shot will have her  _ own _ shot at his heart.”

 

_ Good lord.  How do people listen to this and not vomit? _  Tsing called cut and herded the women to the other side of the hay bales where a shooting range had been assembled.  Bellamy emerged from somewhere looking furious and then a man in beat up jeans and a  _ San Diego Police Department _ t-shirt stepped in front of them and began a gun safety lecture.

 

Clarke had taken gun safety lessons with her dad when she was thirteen before she was allowed on the annual family deer hunt with her uncles and she’d become a pretty good shot. And then when she was twenty three and her mother had to prove she wasn’t an evil liberal out to take away everyone’s guns Clarke had shown off her shooting skills to an adoring press corps, which had involved hours at the shooting range beforehand.  But she paid dutiful attention anyway because Clarke believed in keeping her cards close to her chest.

 

Then Bellamy got to watch as each woman fumbled through assembling a rifle and a handgun, and then in a shocking breach of every gun safety rule Lieutenant David Miller had just described, Bellamy helped them shoot with his arms around them in a move straight out of every romantic comedy ever made.  Bellamy had fought with Cage and Tsing on that front for a solid half hour— a half hour wherein Clarke’s makeup threatened to melt and her heels became permanently embedded in the ground— before they agreed to have the women fire blanks instead of real bullets.

 

Clarke was last, which meant she had to watch Bellamy being sickeningly charming with every other woman.  It seemed a little forced with the first two, but Gina was legitimately skittish about firing her guns and the way Bellamy talked her through it— encouraging, not condescending— would probably warm hearts all across the country.  And while Clarke personally felt Gina could do better, she was also genuinely happy for her.

 

Really, she was.

 

Clarke just didn’t like to lose, that’s all.  So when Bellamy came over, she played dumb for the first round.  She let him explain to her the steps of assembling a rifle, and bit back a smile like she was nervous when he put his hand on her shoulder to guide her shot.

 

When she didn’t flinch at the noise or recoil he got a suspicious gleam in his eye.   “This isn’t your first time at the shooting range, is it?” he asked, crossing his arms and okay, fine, sure, he had really nice forearms but that was just an aesthetic observation and nothing more.

 

She shrugged and met his challenging gaze.  “I have some experience, yeah.”

 

“Then by all means— impress me, princess,” he teased.  

 

Clarke kept her eyes on him and assembled the handgun by feel.  She almost dropped the clip on her second to last step but saved it with her right hand and smirked in triumph.  She turned, took half a second to brace herself, and fired. If there  _ had _ been a bullet in there she would have hit the bullseye, she was sure of it.  

 

Bellamy laughed, and oddly enough it didn’t sound mocking.  It sounded, honestly, like he was  _ enjoying himself _ .  She smiled back, proud, and for one glorious heartbeat she didn’t remember that she was on a stupid fucking dating show and that he was only keeping her around because America needed a villain.

 

“Well, looks like we’ve got ourselves a winner here,” Bellamy told the camera, and behind it Cage had a hurried conversation with Tsing.

 

“Okay, Clarke, go ahead and do the confessional and then get ready for the date.  Bellamy, we need to reshoot the intro before you meet up with her,” Cage directed, and once again Clarke was shuffled off to a car.

 

Fox rode with her this time and at least she had the decency to look embarrassed.  “They needed to spice things up a bit,” she said, chewing on her lower lip.

 

“By humiliating me?”

 

“You look great though.  And you won,” Fox protested.

 

_ Except I didn’t want to win _ , Clarke thought, although somehow that didn’t feel quite true.  She turned to look out the window. They were circling back to the mansion, it seemed, and stopped at a small house that had a crew crawling all over it.

 

There was a table set up out back, on a spacious wooden deck with white christmas lights twining around the railing.  Globe lights dangled from an ivy covered pergola above it, and really, the effect would be stunning if Clarke wasn’t so pissed at everyone.  She plastered a fake smile on through the confessional—  _ no, I wasn’t embarrassed at all by dressing up like this.  I just knew I’d win _ — and by the time Emerson had done his requisite three takes at welcoming her to the one-on-one date, her cheeks were aching.

 

It was almost a relief to see Bellamy, because at least he hadn’t been a part of an attempt to humiliate her.  Or at least he wasn’t, as far as she knew. He was arrogant and annoying, but he wasn’t  _ cruel _ .  He kissed her hand with that smirk that was quickly becoming familiar and escorted her to the seat.  They were having fried chicken— really leaning hard into that country theme, it would appear— and beer, which suited Clarke just fine.  They toasted with their beers and Bellamy asked how she’d learned how to shoot, and suddenly, Clarke found herself on a  _ date _ .

 

It was the weirdest damn thing.  She loathed him and he loathed her, and they were both pretty much just here for the money (and for the chance to blow up their life, in her case), but somehow, they found a rapport.  He was funny when he wanted to be, and when she pointed that out he winked and her, and she found herself  _ blushing _ .  

 

She was even annoyed with Fox for interrupting them, but apparently in addition to dinner they had to dance for the cameras.  Clarke was a good dancer— or good enough for this, which was more guided swaying than dancing— but now she felt oddly nervous, and it seemed like Bellamy felt the same way.  He smiled almost shyly at her across the deck while the crew set up the lights, and his palms were just the tiniest bit sweaty when they took their places. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled, wiping them on his pants.  Clarke laughed and wondered why she found that charming instead of annoying, but fortunately Fox appeared to fuss with her microphone before she could get too caught up in that.

 

Dancing in front of a full tv crew, including three cameras, a lighting department, and four different sound guys, should have been anything but intimate.  Especially since they couldn’t actually  _ play _ music, since that would make editing the scene impossible.  So instead Clarke had to stand in Bellamy’s arms, looking up into his eyes and dancing to complete and utter silence.  It should have been the weirdest ten minutes of her life, but instead she was...comfortable. It was easy to do this with him, for some reason, so they chatted and laughed and flirted and fake-danced until Cage called it a wrap for the night.

 

If it wasn’t for everything else— the dating show and no-music-dancing and the aforementioned loathing, it would have been the perfect first date.

 

**

 

With no access to books, movies, magazines, the internet, or any other source of entertainment that was not each other, there really wasn’t much to do at the mansion besides drink.

 

So drink they did.

 

They were down to eight contestants, and Clarke had heard from Raven that she, Gina, and Echo were considered the front runners among the crew.  “Most of the money is on Gina to win it all, but you and Echo are neck and neck for first runner up. Honestly, Tsing and Cage will pick whichever one of you they think will sleep with him first,” Raven said during a break in shooting.

 

For some reason, that information pissed her off, so Clarke was the first one to break out the vodka that night.  She poured a shot for herself and one for Echo, and then Roma came by and asked for a double, and pretty soon after that Clarke found herself playing bartender to seven other impossibly beautiful women.  She was laughing at a story Echo was telling when Bellamy walked in and playfully asked where his drink was. Clarke grabbed the tequila bottle from underneath the bar and slammed it on the counter. “Right here,” she said with a quirk of her eyebrow.

 

“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it, huh?”

 

“Think you can handle it?”

 

“Can you?” 

 

Clarke lined up a row of shot glasses and poured the tequila over them until they were full to the brim.  A PA materialized out of nowhere with salt shakers and slices of lime and Clarke remembered that they were being filmed, but she’d had just enough to drink that she honestly didn’t care.  She was enjoying herself and when Echo suggested body shots Clarke cheered along with everyone else. Bellamy took his first shot off Echo, licking the salt from her collarbone and plucking the lime from her teeth.  Gina begged off— she was already too drunk, she said— and Roma and Harper each took one off each other.

 

When Bellamy turned to her with that now-familiar mocking grin, Clarke smirked back.  “My turn,” she announced. She stepped out from behind the bar, letting her hips sway with her movement, and sauntered towards him.  He stood still, as if entranced. She kept a small smile on her lips while she unbuttoned his shirt a few buttons and spread the collar open.  His skin was warm and rich, and she had to admit, she was looking forward to running her tongue along his neck. She took the lime and placed it between his lips and dipped her finger in the tequila.  Bellamy tilted his jaw back and let her draw a wet line and cover it with salt.

 

The rest of the girls were cat-calling and laughing, but it was like the sound had been turned down. Clarke kept her eyes on him as she threw back the shot, masking her urge to grimace by lifting her eyebrows at him.  “I’m waiting,” he said, and so Clarke put her hand on his shoulder for balance and licked the salt from his skin.

 

She wanted to say she felt nothing, but that would be a lie.  Taking the lime from his mouth was even harder, although he didn’t try to kiss her the way he had with Echo, although his hand did curl around her waist and his fingers flexed slightly when their lips touched.  

 

People cheered again when she stepped away, but Clarke was finding it hard to look him in the eye.  Fortunately Roma grabbed his arm and dragged him into a conversation, so Clarke returned to her perch behind the bar.  But Bellamy laughed at something Gina said and Clarke decided she wasn’t having fun anymore, so she took advantage of the fact that everyone was busy and slipped away.

 

The crew closet was blessedly empty and Clarke let her head drop back against the wall.  She had to get ahold of herself, and soon.

 

The door opened and she startled, only to find Bellamy closing the door and resting his forehead against it.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

 

He jumped and spun around.  “What the hell are  _ you _ doing here?”

 

“You’re the one with a harem out there,” she tossed back.

 

“Why the hell do you think I’m in here?” he snarled.  “I wanted a fucking break. How do you even know about this?”

 

“Whatever,” Clarke said, and went to push past him.

 

But his hand grabbed her elbow and she stopped and looked up.  His eyes were dark and wide and she watched him wet his lips, and her brain flashed back to his skin underneath her tongue.  She kissed him— or maybe he kissed her, it was hard to tell. It was hard and fierce, his teeth sinking into her lip while she clawed at his back.  His shirt was still unbuttoned from the shot and she nearly ripped it off of him in her haste. Bellamy shoved her back against a shelving unit and she gasped, his mouth dragging down her jaw to her collarbone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I literally stopped writing in the middle of a smut scene? sorry about that.
> 
> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	3. Let's Go To The Mall (Today!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an attempt at writing something v fluffy with almost no angst.

It wasn’t the worst job in the world, working at the giant chain bookstore in the mall.  Bellamy got a 15% discount on books, he was up to $13 an hour, and the annoyance of people asking if he could help them find a titleless book but “the cover is blue” was a small price to pay for a job with fairly regular hours.  Anya scheduled around his classes with minimal griping, and his coworkers were, for the most part, pretty nice. If nothing else, working in a mall meant most of his other friends— so Raven and Miller, because he had all of two— worked there too.

 

He punched in in the break room and walked up to the front of the store to take his spot at his register and drew up short.  “Since when do you work here?” he asked.

 

Murphy shrugged.  “Since they hired me like, three days ago.”

 

“Didn’t you just get fired?”

 

“Not from here.”

 

“I know not from here,” he grumbled.  “I just can’t believe they hired you. Is your girlfriend already casing the place?”

 

“She’s not going to steal  _ books _ ,” Murphy sneered.  “Anyway, I’m out. Enjoy your shift.”

 

Murphy opened the door to the break room and a blonde emerged, headed for the registers.  She reached him just as Anya headed over. “Good, you’re here. Clarke, this is Bellamy. Clarke transferred from our Charlottesville branch for the summer,” she explained.  “So you don’t have to train her.”

 

Bellamy nodded and she nodded back.  He remembered her, of course— everyone in Arkadia knew Clarke Griffin.  She was a year ahead of Octavia and they’d worked on a project for Pike’s Civics class together when Octavia was a sophomore, so he’d met her a handful of times.  He remembered her bent over a poster on their kitchen table, her mouth pursed in concentration while she painted. She looked a little different now, her face just a little thinner and her hair no longer pulled back in a braid.

 

Anya was walking Clarke through the register process just to be sure, and Bellamy rang up a middle aged woman buying a stack of graphic novels.  She left and Clarke leaned her forearms on the counter. “How’s Octavia?” she asked. 

 

“She’s good,” Bellamy said and did a quick scan of the floor.  It was quiet, just a handful of patrons circulating, and no one was approaching the registers.

 

“She still dating that guy?”

 

“What guy?” Bellamy asked sharply.  Octavia had been secretive lately and he had his suspicions, but he was trying to let go a little.  She was going to college in the fall after all. But as far as he knew, she was single. That meant she was either lying to him or Clarke was mistaken, and he had a bad feeling he knew which one it was.

 

“Nobody,” Clarke said a little too quickly.  At his look she shook her head. “I was making assumptions based on Instagram.  And I’m not gonna rat her out, even if I’m right.” Bellamy frowned, because he didn’t even know Octavia  _ had _ an Instagram.  Clarke looked up and smiled brilliantly at the sixth grade kid who walked up to her register.  “Did you find everything all right today?” she asked. Bellamy watched in half-annoyance, half-amusement as the kid turned bright red and stammered a little before paying for his book in cash.

 

Clarke rolled her eyes at Bellamy when she found him still frowning.  “Come on, she’s going off to college. She’ll be fine.”

 

“So you’re at UVA?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.  He knew how people reacted to how protective he was about Octavia, but he couldn’t help it.  Their mom wasn’t around much and  _ someone _ had to parent her, so it might as well be him.  Besides, she was a little on the impulsive side.

 

Clarke nodded and leaned her hip against the counter.  “Biology major and an art minor,” she said.

 

He thought back to her poster, a strikingly realistic portrait of a suffragette.  “Just minoring in art?”

 

“Yeah, I think I’ll go to med school when I’m done.  An art major just means spending my life working at a place like this and who wants that, right?”  Bellamy stiffened, and Clarke seemed to realize what she said a moment too late. “I mean— I didn’t mean that— you know what I meant, right?”

 

“That working a job like this is beneath you.  Got it, princess,” he snapped. He didn’t  _ want _ to be working here, any more than he  _ wanted _ to be taking two classes per semester and one per summer at the local state extension.  But his mom’s second shift job barely put food on the table and someone needed to be around to get Octavia to and from practices, so he did it.

 

And no matter what anyone said, he didn’t regret it.  Family comes first, no matter what.

 

Clarke’s eyes looked pleading.  “Bellamy, I was just— it was a thoughtless thing to say, and—”

 

“Whatever,” he said and turned away.  He didn’t need her pity, that was for sure.  “I’m going to go stock the shelves. Think you can manage?”

 

“Bellamy—”

 

“Can. You. Manage?” he bit out.

 

Clarke squared her shoulders.  “I’ve got it,” she said cooly.

 

It took him the next three hours of shelving to calm down, and even then just barely.  It was an overreaction, to be sure, but— still. He hated it when people looked down on him for doing what needed to be done.  And maybe he didn’t want to work in a Barnes and Noble for the rest of his life, but if he had to he’d do it, and do it gladly.  He had no use for people who looked down on honest work.

 

“Going on lunch,” he told Anya, and grabbed his bag from the break room.  It was an early break, but he always took it at this time on days when Raven was working because it matched up with her schedule perfectly.

 

She was waiting for him in the food court with a bowl of stir fry from Panda Express in front of her.  “What crawled up your ass and died?” she asked when he sat down.

 

“Cute,” he grumbled.  “And by the way, you’ve got to stop eating that shit.  It’s nothing but salt.”

 

Raven rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coke.  “Sure thing, Mom. You know it’s got vegetables, right?”

 

“Vegetables and more salt than you need to eat in one week.”

 

Raven took another bit of her dinner and chewed.  “Again, what crawled up your ass and died?”

 

“Nothing.  Is Octavia dating someone?”

 

“How the fuck should I know?”

 

“You have Instagram.”

 

“You could too,” she replied.  “It’s not like, hard. Seriously, what the hell?”

 

Bellamy picked at his salad with a fork.  “Clarke started working today.”

 

“I knew she was back in town for the summer, but I didn’t know she’d be working here.  Wait— is that why you’re mad? Or is it Octavia shit?”

 

“It’s Octavia shit,” he lied. Raven and Clarke had a weird friendship, he knew, thanks to both dating the same asshole at the same time.   “She just— she said something about Octavia dating someone because of something she saw on Instagram.”

 

“Your sister posts a billion pictures a day to Insta,” Raven said.  “It’s probably nothing.”

 

“And if it’s not?”

 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Raven said and then smiled.  “Aren’t you going to ask about my day?”

 

Bellamy did, and Raven launched into a long story about a woman who brought her laptop in to get a key replaced on the keyboard for the sixth time in three years.  “Like seriously, how hard do you fucking type?” she finished, and Bellamy gave her a grudging smile.

 

“Taking any classes this summer?” he asked, wiping his fingers on the flimsy brown napkins she had piled between them.  She went to the same college he did— it lacked the prestige and funding of a major university, but it made up for it with night classes and significantly lower tuition.

 

“No, I’m taking the summer off, I think.  You?”

 

“Yeah, I have to take a Stats class.  Kept putting off,” he said.

 

Raven made a face.  “I have to take a chem class in the fall.  It’s gonna kill me,” she groused and then checked her phone.  “And speaking of, I have to get back to the Geek desk or Sinclair will murder me.”

 

“I should go too,” he agreed.

 

Anya had Clarke circulating and straightening the stock when he got back, and she took her dinner break shortly afterwards.  At no point during the rest of their shift did she even look at him, much less acknowledge him.

 

So much the better, he thought.

 

**

 

Bellamy figured they could get through their shifts with polite nods and nothing more.  It wasn’t like they actually needed to discuss anything and sure, it was nice to have someone to talk to while working, but it wasn’t a necessity.

 

Except sometimes, on afternoons when there was hardly anyone in the store and no inventory to shelve, it was excruciatingly boring.

 

Clarke broke first.  “What’s your favorite Harry Potter book?”

 

“What?”  They were both behind the cash registers, mostly because they’d already dusted the store and Anya was talking to the one customer out on the floor.  

 

“Your favorite Harry Potter book,” she said, and pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead.  “Everyone’s read them, so you must have a favorite.”

 

“Prisoner of Azkaban,” he said.  He was bored too, after all. “You?”

 

“Half Blood Prince,” she said, and he made himself stop gritting his jaw.  They could do this— he could make small talk. “And your house?”

 

He shrugged.  “I dunno. Slytherin, maybe?”

 

Clarke scrunched her face up in thought.  “No, you’re not. I’m Slytherin, for sure, but you aren’t.”

 

“And how do you know that?”

 

“Slytherins are ambitious.  When was the last time you did anything for yourself?”  He started to tense and she once again realized she’d said the wrong thing.  “I don’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “I mean— you do everything for Octavia, you know?  You stayed home to work so she would have someone around instead of going off to college, right?”

 

“How do you know that?” he mumbled, and Clarke grinned, bright and real.  He had to look away for a second.

 

“I was friends with her in high school,” she said.  “I think you’re Gryffindor, actually. Loyal, brave, all that shit.”

 

Part of him wanted to ask why she thought he was  _ brave _ of all things and another part of him wanted to point out that  _ Gryffindors are the heroes of the story _ , but a customer came in and Clarke went to help her find a book, and the moment was over.

 

**

 

Harry Potter became their safe topic after that, or so he thought.  They discussed the movies (sufficient, but they did great damage to Ron’s character) and spent a good afternoon ranting about Snape (he might have been brave but he was also  _ the worst _ ) and for a solid week, it seemed like they might make it through the summer on Harry Potter alone.

 

And then Clarke brought up Dumbledore.

 

It was in the context of making fun of Rowling for trying to get credit for Dumbledore being gay extra-textually, which he agreed with.  But then she said, “It just bothers me, you know? Because Dumbledore is the best, and how great would it be to have him gay, explicitly, in canon?”

 

Bellamy stopped re-alphabetizing the romance novels and looked at her.  “Wait, Dumbledore is the best?”

 

“Of course he is,” she said without looking up.  She rolled up onto her toes to dust the top shelf.  “And I hate it when writers try and get away without using the actual word, you know?”

 

Bellamy stopped and turned to her just as Anya poked her head around the shelf.  “Locking up in five, guys,” she said, and Bellamy waved her off without really listening.

 

“You cannot be serious,” he replied.

 

“Wait, you  _ don’t _ like Dumbledore?”

 

“Don’t like him?  Clarke, he left Harry living in a  _ closet _ .”

 

“He thought he was protecting him.”

 

“By leaving him to be  _ abused?” _

 

Clarke crossed her arms and Bellamy mirrored her, his jaw so tight a muscle flickered.  “It was the only way to keep him safe. And without him, they couldn’t defeat Voldemort.”

 

“Again: he left him to be abused.  Not okay.”

 

“I’m not saying it’s okay, I’m saying—”

 

“And I’m saying there’s absolutely no justification that makes it okay.  You can say Dumbledore did what he thought was right, but it wasn’t the right thing to do.  And he’s definitely not the  _ best _ .”

 

But Clarke didn’t back down from a fight, so fifteen minutes later they were still glaring at each other, the issue of Dumbledore completely unresolved.

 

And then the lights clicked off.  “Anya, we’re still here!” he yelled.  His voice echoed slightly; then silence.  “Anya?”

 

Clarke stepped forward and the lights clicked back on.  “The motion sensors are already on?” she said, and Bellamy yelled Anya’s name again to complete silence.  She was a fan of the silent treatment, but she also had a short temper when it came to being bothered. She usually answered by the third time someone called her name, if only to shout at you for being annoying.  “If they’re on, doesn’t that mean— fuck are we locked in?”

 

Bellamy shook his head, not wanting to believe it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	4. Single Dad AU

Clarke fumbled with her keys, her hands clumsy in her thick gloves.  The door stuck a little, so she pushed in until she stumbled through the entryway.  She walked past the door to the first floor apartment and headed up the stairs, wondering when the new tenant was moving in.  Indra had mentioned that she’d rented the place out after four months of it sitting empty, but there was no sign of anyone yet.

 

She kicked off her boots just inside her own door and shuffled across the bare wood floor to turn on her speakers.  Halsey filled the air and Clarke danced her way around the kitchen, chopping up veggies for a stir fry. She sang along, and cranked the music a bit when the sizzle from the stir fry threatened to drown out the lyrics.  Her shift at the ER had been long, but by the time the veggies were mostly cooked she had left the carnage behind her.

 

Three loud  _ thumps _ from her door startled her from her zenned out state.  She looked at the clock—  _ 2:13am _ — and her stomach twisted.  She’d been spoiled with the apartment below being empty for so long, and she had gotten out of the habit of keeping her music down when she worked odd hours.

 

She opened the door to find a man about her age, his handsome features twisted in fury.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarled the second he saw her, before she could even start to apologize.  “What sort of spoiled princess plays her music like that at two in the goddamn morning?”

 

“Hey, sorry,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender.  “I didn’t know you moved in.” She hit pause on her speakers, and the music stopped.

 

“Well, I did,” he growled.  “And I have a fucking kid, and it’s a miracle—”  Right on cue, she heard wails leaking through her floorboards.  Her neighbor closed his eyes like he was in physical pain. “Never mind.  You did wake him up.”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

 

“Course you didn’t.”

 

“Hey, calm down— it was a mistake, okay?” she snapped.  “I’m trying to apologize.”

 

“Save it,” he said, and then he thundered back down the stairs without so much as a backward glance.

 

She shut the door behind her and returned to her dinner.   _ Great.  He’s an asshole, and he hates me.  _

 

**

 

Clarke gave her grumpy neighbor a wide berth after that, not keen to repeat that interaction.  She heard the baby crying sometimes, but Clarke had gotten used to sleeping through almost anything— it was the only way to survive residency.  Sometimes she saw him struggling to lug the car seat up from the curb (one of the downsides to living in Indra’s converted Victorian: no garage, just street parking) but she managed to never see him in their small shared entryway.  She didn’t even know his first name, just his last thanks to the small square of tape that said  _ Blake _ on his mailbox.

 

Two weeks later, her alarm went off at two in the afternoon and she slapped at it blindly.  She pulled off her sleep mask and frowned at how dim the light streaming through her curtains seemed, and then swore when she twitched back the heavy cloth to discover that snow was falling steadily and clearly had been for hours.  “Fuck,” she muttered to herself. She hurried through her routine so she would have extra time to dig out her car and deal with the traffic, but when she walked out to her car she drew up short.

 

The snow was cleared from the roof and hood, and the windows chipped free of ice.  Space had even been cleared out near the wheels. She stared in shock, but there weren’t any other cars nearby, no friendly neighbor waiving in acknowledgment.  She looked back and saw a light glowing in the first floor apartment, but it clearly wasn’t that jackass. Clarke decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the memory stayed in the back of her mind for the next week.

 

**

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (wow I really thought this one was longer? lol whoops)
> 
> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	5. Vigilantes

 

Nyko stitched her lip, silently clucking over her injuries, but the real wound wasn’t something he could fix with ice or a needle and thread.

Bellamy hated her.  

After everything, Clarke thought she could count on his love, as selfish as that sounded.  She knew he’d be hurt by her leaving, but she always kept close the memory of how much he loved her, steadfast and loyal.  Clarke never thought she’d see him again, so she tucked away the memory of his kiss and kept it safe, but now, like everything else in her goddamn life, it was destroyed.

It took her a week to face him.  A week to let her bruises mostly fade, and a week to build up the courage to see those eyes that used to look at her so fondly be hardened in anger.  A week with no deaths aside from one Azgedan stabbed in a bar fight, but that wasn’t Bellamy’s work. The week passed, and she knew it was a sign from him. 

He was waiting for her before he made his next move.

She still wasn’t sure if Emerson was tailing her so she waited until it was dark and used her slingshot to knock out the streetlight that cast a yellow halo around his window before jimmying it open and slipping inside.

Bellamy’s fist caught her off guard, slamming against her jaw before he recognized her.  “You,” he growled. “I have a door, you know.”

“I couldn’t risk being seen.”

He glanced out his window and sighed, scrubbing his hand across his face.  “You take out the streetlight?” At her nod, he sighed again. “In this neighborhood, that’ll never get fixed,” he grumbled, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt from a pile at the foot of his bed.

Clarke followed him wordlessly to the kitchen, where he flipped on a light and studied her.  The worst of the bruises on his face had faded to yellow, but she felt each one echo in her fists. Bellamy tipped her chin up with a finger and traced around the stitch in her lip, his fingers ghosting over the bruise on her jaw.  Pain crossed his face, and Clarke found her own hand brushing along a cut underneath his eye— physical proof that she’d hurt him too. “I’m sorry,” Bellamy breathed. “I never— I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Me either,” she whispered back.  “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

His eyes met hers, and suddenly the tightness in her chest eased because there wasn’t anger or hatred in his gaze, just sadness.  But then his face shuttered and he stepped back, walking to fridge to dig out an ice pack. “I assume you want something,” he said, shoving the ice pack in her hands.

“We have to end this.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“First, you stop killing Grounders.”

“And then?”  He sat down heavily at the beat-up table and she followed suit, the ice easing the tenderness in her jaw.

“Lexa’s coalition is splintering, and if we don’t get someone on our side to takeover, this whole city will go to hell.  There’ll be all out war between the twelve Grounder gangs, not to mention newcomers wanting a piece of the action.”

“Or we could kill them all,” he said, but there was something like a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Clarke settled for sending him a dirty look. “We get the coalition under control, and then the new commander can finish Lexa’s negotiations with Kane.”

“Pike is still Police Commissioner,” Bellamy pointed out.  “He’d never make a deal with the gangs.”

“I think my mom might be able to help with that,” Clarke said grimly.  It would involve mending fences she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with yet, but if they could get Kane back in power, it would be worth it. “Our real problem will be who to talk to about taking over the Grounders.  I think Roan might be our best choice, but last time I saw him I might…I might have stabbed him.”

Bellamy snorted.  “He hates me too, but— I might have an idea.”

**

Roan was quick— Clarke had to give him that.  With anyone else, he might have gotten a shot off before she disarmed him.  As neither she nor Bellamy were exactly on speaking terms with Roan they’d had to take a bit more of a direct approach than she’d wanted, which meant taking down all four of his personal bodyguards and bursting into his bedroom.  Alone, that would have been possible but a bit of a challenge, but with Bellamy it was easy as could be. They took the first two unawares, and the second two only scuffled with them for a few heartbeats before they were safely rendered unconscious.  She disarmed Roan while Bellamy stood back at the door, and the woman in Roan’s bed sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest.

Roan cast a measuring glance around the room.  “Somebody going to tell me what’s going on here?”

“We have a proposition for you,” Clarke said.

“And that required bursting into my bedroom?” Roan snarled.

“Well, you wouldn’t exactly let us in through your front door,” Bellamy drawled, the gun on his hip prominently displayed by the way he leaned against the wall.

“Always the drama queen,” Roan’s girlfriend snarked, throwing her long dark hair back over her shoulder.  “Long time no see, Bell.”

“Good to see you too, Raven,” he said with a jerk of his chin.  “Your boyfriend’s guards are crap, by the way.”

“I could still kick your ass,” Roan muttered and threw the sheets back, seemingly unconcerned that he was completely naked underneath.  He stepped into a pair of jeans and pulled them up, while Raven rolled her eyes at Clarke, who was forced to bite back a smile. “But you wanted something?”  Raven reached for her clothes, displaying slightly more modesty than the biker prince.

“We want you.  To lead the Grounders.” Clarke cut in.  The amount of testosterone in the room was rapidly reaching dangerous levels, and she needed to head that off.

“Oh, you do?” Roan tossed his hair back, apparently deciding he didn’t need to wear a shirt.  He handed Raven a brace from his side of the bed. “Looking to install another Grounder commander you can seduce?  Because I hate to tell you, blondes aren’t my type. And I don’t plan on getting my throat cut any time soon, Mountain Slayer.”

Clarke wanted to hit him, but suddenly she was in Lexa’s bed again, lying in a growing pool of her blood and panic rose in her chest.   A blur of black hair shoved between them and Bellamy pinned Roan to the wall with his forearm. “Don’t,” he growled, a knife to Roan’s neck.

“Okay okay, everyone’s dick is equal-sized,” Raven said, snapping her brace on and standing up.  “Let’s all just take a deep breath, okay?”

Bellamy stepped back and Roan gave him a dark look before turning to Clarke.  “You want me to lead the Grounders,” he repeated, while Clarke calmed herself.  “What makes you think I can?”

“You’re smart.  Men would follow you— that’s why your mother threw you out, right?” she asked.

“She’s still runs Azgeda, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Roan pointed out.

“We’ll take care of that,” Clarke said.  “I have it on good authority the city has been building a case against her for racketeering.  Iron-clad. She’d go away for decades, if you’re in.”

“Let’s say I am.  The other gangs have to agree to follow me— how do you plan to accomplish that?”

“Coordinated assault.  Flash-bang grenades in every clubhouse in the city, followed by Azgedas storming in.  The Grounders will follow force, if you prove you can pull something that major off,” Bellamy said.

“And then?  I assume you’re not in this because you have an interest in gangland hierarchy.”

“You continue Lexa’s work,” Clarke replied.  “Drop the gun running and become an unofficial militia.  Protection first and foremost, and you drop the major drug trafficking.”

“You think my people will agree to that?”

“You’ll make them agree.”

Roan surveyed them and Raven skirted the bed to lay a hand on his forearm.  “So what’s your ace?” Raven asked. “Because I know you’re not planning something this big without an insurance policy, so what’s to keep Roan from turning on you once he’s Commander?”

Clarke leveled her gaze at him.  “His mother. He turns, and the case against her will fall apart and a jailhouse snitch will let it slip that Roan’s the one who turned her in.”  

Roan’s blue eyes hardened.  “Coordinated assault, you said?”

“Sounds like you need me too,” Raven chimed in.  “Let’s get to work, kids.”

**

[FINISH] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm especially proud of that [finish] note at the bottom. Really ties the whole thing together.
> 
> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	6. Iceland

Bellamy blinked at the orange light streaming through the nylon walls and reached out automatically— or as automatically as something could be after three days— but Clarke’s spot was empty.  He cracked his neck and crawled out out of the tent to find her stretched out on a broad, flat rock, sketching. She had on fingerless gloves to ward off the ever present chill on the island and the Atlantic wind ruffled her hair under her grey beanie.

 

“Coffee’s in the pot,” she called.  This far north the sun had been up long enough that it was bright enough to be nearly midday, although Bellamy was reasonably sure it couldn’t be much past nine.  “I can’t believe you go camping with coffee,” he teased.

 

“I can’t believe you go camping without it,” she retorted.

 

Bellamy bypassed the fire and coffeepot to walk over and sit down next to her.  “What are you sketching?”

 

“The waterfall from yesterday,” she said without looking up.  “I was thinking we could hike up that ridge off to the east today.  Judging from the maps there should be some more waterfalls up that way, and then we can spend one more night here.  Unless you wanted to move on?”

 

He shrugged.  “There’s plenty to explore here.  I missed you this morning, by the way.”

 

Clarke grinned fondly and leaned down to kiss him.  “I didn’t go far,” she said against his lips. 

 

“Still too far,” he murmured. Bellamy plucked her sketchbook from her hands and drew himself up to cover her and Clarke melted against him, her curves soft and pliant.  He dragged his mouth to her earlobe and then down her neck, and Clarke made a soft noise of protest. “You want me to stop?” he asked.

 

“We are in public,” she said, but whined when he pulled away.

 

“We’re four miles from the nearest parking lot and there’s no one around.  Well, there’s sheep, but I don’t think they’ll mind,” he said and waited for her to lean up and kiss him.  He brushed his tongue alongside hers and nosed his way down her neck to drop a kiss just above her sternum.  He curled his hands into the hem of her shirt and lifted it up as he made his way down her body, mouthing at her hip while Clarke arched her back.  “We can move into the tent if you want,” he said and popped the button on her jeans. He rested his cheek on the curve of her stomach and raised an eyebrow.  “Well?”

 

She pushed herself up on her elbows.  “You’re insufferably smug, you know that?”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“You know the answer,” she said, and helped him peel her jeans down her hips.

 

She tasted somehow familiar and brand new, but he couldn’t get enough.  The volcanic landscape stretched out for miles and her thighs wrapped around his head to hold him in place, and Bellamy hoped that whatever this was, it wouldn’t end in two days.

  
  
  


_ Bellamy picked his satchel up off the sidewalk and hustled onto the bus.  He’d begrudgingly left his backpack and everything else at the hostel, and he’d checked his pocket at least five times on the walk to the bus stop to make sure he had the key.  It would be easier after tonight, he figured— not very many people to steal from you in the middle of nowhere. But then again, being in the middle of nowhere meant you could die and no one would notice until you didn’t get off your plane a week later.   _

 

_ So there were pros and cons to the camping thing, really.  But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today he was taking a bus tour of the areas around Reykjavik, hitting up the big tourist sites he wouldn’t get a chance to see once he was in the interior with just Murphy’s tent and Miller’s sleeping bag.   _

 

_ The bus was mostly full but he spotted one open seat next to a blonde about his age.  She made eye contact and shifted her camera bag to her lap to let him squeeze in, and with a jolting rumble the bus started off.  They exchanged polite smiles and the tour guide began explaining the route. She took a few pictures out of the bus window and leaned back so he could too, but they didn’t speak until the bus rolled up to the first waterfall. _

 

_ “Clarke,” she said, standing and pulling on a thick winter hat.  Her hair stuck out beneath the knitted, rolled brim and Bellamy smothered a smile.  Clarke was cute. _

 

_ “Bellamy.  What brings you to Iceland?”  They filed off the bus with the rest of the tourists, who all seemed to be in groups or at least pairs.  Clarke brought her camera— a big, expensive one with a long lens— up to her eye and snapped a quick shot.   _

 

_ “Quarter life crisis, of a sorts,” she said with a rueful smile.  “You?” _

 

_ “Something like that,” he replied.  It had been a bad year for him, first with Gina leaving him and then with his advisor wanting rewrites on three of his chapters.  It had been a very un-Bellamy like move to book a trip to a country where he didn’t speak the language, and even more uncharacteristic to go camping while there.  But he had been feeling impulsive and restless and tickets were cheap, and he figured camping would save some money even though he’d only been camping once in his life. _

 

_ So yeah, he sort of understood the quarter life crisis thing. _

 

_ They drifted apart at the base of the waterfall, Clarke climbing up the metal stairs to one side for a better angle and Bellamy preferring to stay where he was, letting the spray wash over his face despite the chill in the air.  Clarke offered to take a picture of him with his phone before they walked back to the bus together, and the next stop went much the same way. They sat next to each other on the bus in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable silence of strangers— it was companionable; easy.  And at the third stop she stood next to him as he looked up in awe at the site of the medieval Icelandic Parliament and nudged him with her elbow. “Okay, what’s so cool about this?” she asked. “It’s just a rock.” _

 

_ “But it’s the site of...well, maybe not strictly a democracy, but a deliberative body of power. It’s thousands of miles away and centuries removed from Athens, but it’s the same thing— a big rock from which laws are proclaimed,” he said, and then blushed when he found her staring.  “What? You asked,” he said defensively. _

 

_ “No, I know I did,” she said with a gentle smile.  “I just...wasn’t quite expecting that. History teacher, I take it?” _

 

_ “Grad student,” he corrected.  She stopped and took another photo of the ridges of the Eurasian continental plate.  “So what do you do? When you’re not quarter life crisising, that is.” _

 

_ Clarke chuckled.  “I was in med school.  Now...something else, I guess.” _

 

_ “Photography?” he guessed and nodded to her camera. _

 

_ “Maybe.  Sketches and watercolors are more my thing though.”  They fell into step beside each other for the rest of the walk to the bus, and at the next stop— lunch— he found him talking to her more than he’d talked to anyone who wasn’t Miller in months.  Clarke was easy for him to talk to— she had the same terrible, awkward sense of humor as he did, and she listened intently as he rambled about his dissertation. He listened to her haltingly stumble through the story of quitting med school in pursuit of something that might make her happy, and how scared she was that she wouldn’t figure out what that was. _

 

_ By the time they made it to the hot springs spa that was the last stop on the bus tour, Bellamy was dreading saying goodbye to her.  And then she walked out of the locker room in a dark blue bikini and his mouth went dry. The ever-present Icelandic wind sent goosebumps crawling across her skin and even once she was submerged in the pool, her nipples remained hard.  Bellamy averted his gaze but he was reasonably sure he saw her smirk. _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	7. Silicon Valley (Raven/Roan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My one unfinished ice mechanic fic, which I REALLY DID mean to finish, if only because there was gonna be a great scene where Roan is like "you're a millionaire, why are you making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese" and Raven is like "Because it's DELICIOUS what is wrong with you"

“The new lawyer is waiting down the hall,” Harper said.

 

Raven looked up from her desk.  “Who did we pick?”

 

“You could at least pretend to care.” 

 

“Oh please.  Caring’s overrated.  Highlights?” Raven asked as she pushed herself out of her chair.  She probably should care who they hired to be their litigator in the giant fucking mess that was Thelonius’s lawsuit, but they had had problems with the code in their beta version of the new implant all day and she had kind of checked out of that decision.  

 

“Um, let’s see,” Harper said and fell into step beside her.  “He specializes in arbitration and litigation. Columbia undergrad, Harvard law, the usual East Coast money education.  Plus an MBA from Stanford, but Clarke said that was a family thing and not to bring it up.”

 

“He’s from the East Coast?”

 

“I think so?  Oh wait, no, born in...Alaska.  His family’s got money and his mom is running for...senator or something.  He’s worked for a big firm in San Francisco for a few years, made junior partner but now he’s looking to jump ship.  His name’s Roan, by the way.”

 

“Awesome.  Rich asshole, got it,” Raven said and waved goodbye to Harper.  She opened the door to the conference room and found Roan himself sitting placidly behind the table, looking entirely at home even though his bespoke suit didn’t quite fit with the laid back attitude of Reyes Technologies.  “Hey Roan, I’m Raven,” she said and took a seat across from him. “So you want to be my lawyer.”

 

“If you’ll have me,” he said with a respectful nod.  His cheekbones were sharp and his hair long, and there was something about his mouth that made him seem like he was laughing even though his face was solemn.

 

She called up his resume and pretended to scan it, even though he’d been thoroughly vetted at this point.  “So what makes you want to work here?”

 

“You do good work.  I won’t pretend to understand your biotech, but from what I can tell, you’re on the cutting edge of your industry.”  

 

Raven allowed herself a proud smile, because he was right— the were the cutting edge of the industry.  Hell, they _were_ the industry when it came to neural implants that talked to artificial limbs.  She looked through his resume again, and then there was a word that stopped her heart.   _Azgeda_ _Pharmaceuticals._  “You worked for Azgeda?” she asked, trying to keep the note of suspicion out of her voice.  

  
  


Azgeda was one of the biggest employers in the area after Facebook and Google, and three years ago they’d fired nearly half their staff in a major reorganization, one that led to the CEO of the company stepping down with a $20 million dollar parachute.  Gina had worked in Sales there, and showed up one day to find her job no longer existed. Layoffs happened everywhere, but Azgeda’s were particularly brutal. Raven had loathed them on principle ever since.

 

“I did, but my mother and I have since parted ways.”

 

“That’s your mother’s company?”

 

“It was.”

 

“And you didn’t want to take over?”

 

“My family is...not close.  Does my past at Azgeda pose a problem?”  His light blue eyes watched her with interest, and Raven forced down a grimace.  Clarke had recommended him highly and everyone else had signed off on him. If she changed her mind because her friend lost her job in a company-wide reorganization three years ago, she’d look petty.  Besides, finding a new in-house litigator would just delay the lawsuit and Raven wanted this whole business over with before it could fuck things up with their IPO.

 

“Nope.  Because you don’t get to fire anyone here,” she said, meeting his gaze.

 

He smiled and she got the sense that he was the sort who appreciated a challenge.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

**

 

Raven tucked her mail under her armpit and slotted the key into the lock.  She couldn’t wait for the IPO to be over so she could had leave this bland one bedroom behind for good.  It wasn’t a terrible place— in fact the neighborhood was a lot nicer than anything she lived in growing up— but the shower was cramped and the doors were just narrow enough that getting through them when she had her crutch was kind of a pain in the ass.  In all honesty she probably had enough already y to buy and modify a house out in the hills, but even with the success of Reyes Tech over the past few years she hadn’t felt quite secure enough to make that investment. That’s what happened when you grew up poor— you never fully trusted that the money wouldn’t just disappear one day.  She bumped the light switch with her elbow and tossed the mail on the end of her kitchen counter. She had some leftover pad thai in the fridge that she dug out, too tired to bother with the microwave. She sorted the mail and munched absent mindedly on the cold noodles, tossing the junk mail into one pile and the utility bills into another.  The magazine at the bottom of the pile was the one she’d been dreading:

 

Her face, blown up to the size of an 8x11, with the words  _ The Savior Of Silicon Valley? _ emblazoned across the bottom.

 

Harper had told her the piece came out today but her mind had been too caught up on their coding issue to really pay attention.  She flipped through the article quickly, skimming for the highlights and hoping the journalist had edited out some of her snarkier moments.  The whole “media” thing was still new and uncomfortable for her, and her tendency to rely on sarcasm when uncomfortable didn’t always translate well.  But as far as she could see it was a pretty standard business mag piece, with a few paragraphs to her picturesquely poor childhood and the rest mostly devoted to her founding of the company and the subsequent bullshit with Jaha.  But Raven knew that story far too well to want to rehash it, so she kept flipping. As a Captain of Industry she probably should actually read shit like this magazine, but this sort of thing bored her to tears. A headline towards the back caught her eye and it took her a second to realize why, because  _ Nia Glazer _ sounded vaguely familiar.  But then three sentences down she saw  _ Azgeda Pharmaceuticals _ and she realized why it was so familiar— Nia was Roan’s mother, the former CEO of Azgeda and current Alaskan senatorial candidate.

 

_ Business, Politics, and Family with Nia Glazer _

 

_ Notoriously tough Nia Glazer credits her Alaskan upbringing for her thick skin, although her father’s position as head of Northern Oil meant she didn’t exactly have a hard scrabble childhood.  She took five million from her trust fund at age twenty-four and invested it in Azgeda, a little-known drug company then headquartered in Seattle, eventually relocating the entire operation to her hometown of Juneau. _

 

_ The company expanded rapidly over the next two decades, growing from a small time manufacturer into one of the biggest of Big Pharma.  The oil-heiress-turned-CEO gained a reputation for ruthlessness and competitors soon came to fear the day Nia fixed them in her sights.  Azgeda hit a rough patch three years ago when several risky investments failed to pay out just as the FDA decided to crack down on drugs that were fast-tracked without proper scrutiny.  Two of their biggest sellers were pulled from the US market and Glazer and her son Roan eliminated entire departments in an effort to avoid complete ruin. _

 

_ Those layoffs drew heavy scrutiny and Azgeda is still facing several class actions for breach of contract, charges Nia shrugs off with icy complacency.   Glazer has so far refused to apologize for the $20 million bonus she awarded herself when she retired as CEO just weeks after hundreds of employees found themselves out of work.  “I ran a business, not a charity,” she famously declared when she announced her candidacy for Senate. Glazer’s platform so far centers around deregulation of pharma and other industries, and she still holds that Azgeda’s drugs were perfectly safe and the FDA’s decision to pull them from shelves was made by “Weak-willed bureaucrats who have never made a hard decision in their life.” _

 

Raven closed the magazine in disgust.  Gina had lived on her couch for months thanks to that bitch, and now Raven had gone and hired her son.  Roan could claim he has little to do with her, but he still grew up in a world where losing a job wasn’t the difference between paying your mortgage and having to let the bank take back your house.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	8. Gold Rush AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is the *best* candidate for "someday being finished" but I also apparently last opened the file in July of 2017, so that's not really saying much, tbh.

Bellamy sat up and blinked.  The stove was out but it had been roaring earlier in the morning, which meant it was at least mid afternoon.  He pushed himself up and stumbled, tripping over an empty whiskey bottle that clanked hollowly against his foot  He frowned and reached for the bottle he’d left on the table but when he brought it to his lips he found it dry.

 

He was out.

 

He was out and he still had hours of the day left to get through.

 

Rage boiled through his veins and he threw the whiskey bottle at the wall.  It shattered against the logs and he dimly considered cleaning up the shards of glass but then he remembered he had another bottle in his saddle bag.  Bellamy staggered over to the door and fished it out with clumsy fingers, nearly dropping it before he made it back to the chair.

 

The couch would be more comfortable, but this wasn’t about enjoying himself.  This was about getting drunk enough to forget he’d killed his wife.

 

_ You didn’t kill her _ , Miller had said hundreds of times.   _ You did not give her cholera. _  But Bellamy hadn’t killed Gina the same way he hadn’t killed his mother— not directly, but they were dead because of him all the same.

 

It was his damn idea to come up here, after all.  He was the one who decided they should strike off on their own, move up to the new camp where a rich vein had been discovered before the big companies got involved and took the profits for themselves.  He’d grown up in a mining camp and knew the process better than any suit from the East Coast who wanted to make a quick buck. And he was sick of those East Coast suits making all the money while Bellamy and his men did all the work.

 

He had done it right, he’d thought.  He scouted the area first, took Miller with him to decide on a claim.  The camp was small but relatively tame, as mining camps went. There were even some small buildings going up in place of the tents which made him feel less like he was ripping his family away from their lives and bringing them to a lawless, harsh place the way his father had.

 

Not that Bellamy remembered his father.  He died back in in ‘49 courtesy of a flash flood on the stream he was working, and all Bellamy remembered about him were a few brief memories.  Holding onto thick dark hair while riding on his shoulders; the shine of gold through mud when he drew a nugget from the creek; kissing his mother’s cheek and making her laugh.  That and a faded daguerreotype were all Bellamy had of him, all he had to remember the family they could have been.

 

But as it turned out Bellamy was even worse than his father had been, because his father had only gone and gotten  _ himself _ killed.  Bellamy had killed his mother and then he’d killed his wife and then his sister had run off, driven away by his despair and anger, leaving him alone.

 

The whiskey burned his throat and roiled his stomach.  He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last— maybe last night, before he realized what day it was.  His eyes drooped, heavy from the alcohol, and he heard a noise out on the porch. Animals, probably.  Maybe a bear, but those were usually louder. He considered getting up to scare it away but in the end lethargy won out and he just tipped the bottle back again.  Something thumped against the door and he took another swig, wondering if he needed to start the fire again in case he froze to death tonight.

 

On second thought, there were worse ways to go.

 

He heard the thump again— sharper this time, repeated twice— and frowned.  Miller, maybe, coming to see if he was still alive. “Go away,” he yelled, his voice harsh and raspy.

 

Another knock.  “I said,  _ go away _ .”

 

Instead, the door swung inward, revealing a blonde woman in a smart-but-threadbare dress.  Her skirts were dusty and her hat had seen better days, her hair escaping from underneath it as if she’d been sleeping in it for several days.  Her eyes darted around the gloomy cabin, finally settling on him in the corner. Her mouth pursed and her brow furrowed. “So you’re Bellamy Blake?” she asked.  She sounded like an East Coast suit, all crisp vowels and prim manners.

 

“Who the hell are you?”

 

“I’m Zoe Monroe.”

 

Bellamy stared at her blankly.  The whiskey had addled his brain but he was reasonably certain he’d never heard of a Zoe Monroe.  “You’re who?”

 

The blonde’s frown deepened and she crossed her arms.  “I’m your  _ wife _ .”

 

**

 

Bellamy stared at her.  “Get the fuck out of my house,” he snarled.

 

She set her jaw and straightened.  “You’re Bellamy Blake, right? Then no.  I’m not leaving.”

 

“Look princess, I don’t know who the hell you are—”

 

“I’m your wife,” she repeated firmly, and the word  _ wife _ went through his guts like a dagger.

 

“Get. out.”  He staggered up and saw the first flicker of concern in her eyes but she didn’t back down.  “I don’t have a wife anymore,” he bit out. “So get out of here.”

 

“I’m Zoe—”

 

“I heard you the first time.  If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get yourself and your sick sense of humor out of my damn house.”

 

She took a half step back to the threshold.  Behind her was a steamer trunk, battered and worn.  “There must be some mistake,” she said, clearly changing to a conciliatory track.  “I’m Zoe Monroe. From Bos— from Massachusetts?”

 

“I don’t know anyone from there.”  The whiskey bottle hung from his fingertips and he lifted it to take a drink.  He saw a look of disgust cross her face and his anger resurfaced. “Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out?”

 

“I think we need—”

 

“Get  _ out _ ,” he roared.

 

But Zoe Monroe was implacable.  She flinched but didn’t back down, just clucked her tongue.  “You’re a drunken mess,” she spat.

 

“And you don’t know when you’re not wanted.”

 

The wood boards of the porch creaked and Miller appeared behind her, looking concerned.  “I saw the stagecoach come into town, Miss,” he said to the interloper, entirely too politely.  “I tried to intercept you, but the driver said he’d already left you here. You must be Zoe. I’m Nathan, but most around these parts just call me Miller.”  He sent a worried glance Bellamy’s way. “I think you arrived at a bad time.”

 

She gave a harsh bark of laughter.  “You could say that. And how do you know who I am?”

 

Miller sent him another concerned look.  “I, uh...I helped Bellamy...choose you.”

 

A hazy memory surfaced.  It had been Miller’s idea, just before Octavia ran off.   _ Maybe a new woman might help; she could soften up Octavia and clean things up around the house.  Be company for you. I’ve heard of services that let you pick; you pay for her passage and she marries you here.  You hate her, you just send her back to the agency and they find her someone else.. _

 

_ Why does she have to be a wife?  I could just hire a maid to do the same thing. _

 

_ It’s been a year.  I know you loved her but you can’t live like this forever.  Just think about it. _

 

Two months later Bellamy had agreed to sort through the packet of profiles Miller had apparently sent away for and Bellamy decided on one: Zoe Monroe, youngest daughter of a farmer outside of Massachusetts.

 

“The agency said nothing about him being a drunkard,” Zoe was arguing.  She didn’t look much like a farmer’s daughter, though. “We were promised men of character.”

 

“Like I said, you came at a bad time,” Miller soothed.  “He’s not a drunkard usually.”

 

“Is he still usually an ass?”

 

Miller gave her a wry grin.  “Yes, actually. He is.”

 

Zoe almost-smiled and glanced at Bellamy again.  “So what’s the excuse for this?”

 

“Not now,” Miller said hastily.  “I think it’s best if we go into town and—”

 

“I’m like this because my wife  _ died _ ,” Bellamy snarled.  She died because two years ago today he’d dragged her up to this godforsaken camp.  Within six months his wife and his mother were gone, and another six months after that his sister had run away.  Two years ago today, Bellamy had ruined his own damn life. He sank back down in his chair and helped himself to another pull of whiskey.

 

Miller held out a hand towards him, signalling for him to stop.  “I don’t think you should stay here. We don’t have a hotel in town, but there’s a few women who might be able to spare some room.”

 

Bellamy looked at Octavia’s room, the bed still covered in quilts.  “Don’t bother,” he found himself saying, even though Miller’s plan was better.  Maybe he just felt like being contrary. “I’ll pass out soon and I won’t harm you, I promise.  You can take the stagecoach back tomorrow.”

 

She looked him up and down shrewdly and jerked her head in assent.  “Miss, I think—” Miller started.

 

“Will he keep his word?  I’m safe with him?” she interrupted.

 

Miller sighed.  “That much is true, yes.  He’s drunk but he’s harmless.”

 

“And if he’s not, I know how to use a knife,” she said with a cold smile.

 

**

 

Bellamy woke very the next morning with a terrible headache.  He stumbled out into the main room to find Zoe’s trunk open, her belongings scattered everywhere.  “Thought you were leaving today,” he grunted.

 

“I seemed to have misplaced something,” she said from where she knelt in front of her trunk.  “Never you mind.”

 

“Seeing as my home is now the inside of your steamer trunk I’d beg to differ,” he grumbled.

 

She sniffed and moved aside another dress.  “Miller stopped by. He said to tell you the claim is running fine.”  Zoe looked up and cocked her head to the side. “Since it appears to be your mine, I was wondering, do you ever go?  Or is that just something you let your employees handle?” she asked acidly, and he barely suppressed a sneer.

 

Instead he stalked out of the cabin to the well.  This high in the mountains mid-September was already verging on winter and the air slapped his face.  He stuck his head under the icy water, driving away the last few cobwebs of sleep and liquor. Bellamy walked back in and found her frowning at the bottom of her empty trunk.  Water from his hair dripped down onto his shirt, spreading down his shoulder. “What’d you lose?” he asked. The sooner he could help her find it the sooner she’d be gone.

 

She shook her head.  “My father’s pocket watch.  I thought I had it near the top, but I didn’t see it when I opened it last night.  I assumed it’d fallen, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

 

“Who was your driver?”

 

“A man named Murphy.  Sharp nose, long hair.”

 

Bellamy sighed.  “Did you stop along the way?”

 

“Just for lunch at his cabin.”  

 

“His wife was there?”

 

Her gaze narrowed suspiciously.  “Why?”

 

“Dammit,” he grumbled.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

“There’s no need—”

 

“He stole your damn watch,” Bellamy said and stomped out of the cabin, Zoe hot on his heels.  He strode through the small copse of trees that separated his land from the rest of camp. Camp itself was a hodgepodge of canvas tents and timber buildings.  Each building was responsible for it’s own boarded sidewalks and few met evenly, so Zoe stumbled and tripped along behind in his wake. 

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Go back to the cabin.  This is no place for a lady.”  Bellamy pushed past a row of miners waiting on the hardware store and dodged a suspicious puddle in front of Echo’s.

 

“Like hell I will.  It’s my watch,” she said fiercely.

 

“On your own head be it.” He kicked open the doors to the saloon.  “Murphy!” he roared.

 

Like he suspected, Murphy was at the Faro table.  He paled a little at the sight of Zoe but mustered up a slick smile anyway.  “Bellamy, look at you, up and walking. Last I heard you’d crawled into a bottle and weren’t coming out.”

 

Bellamy didn’t respond.  He bulled at him at full speed and knocked him backwards out of the chair.  Murphy squirmed and tried to get to his feet but Bellamy pinned him down and swung his fist into his face with a satisfying  _ crack _ .  “Fuck,” Murphy cried and pulled back, landing a glancing blow on Bellamy’s shoulder.  But Bellamy had the upper hand and yanked Murphy to his feet. He pushed him back against the pillar and jammed his forearm into Murphy’s windpipe.  “Her watch. Where is it?”

 

Murphy twisted in his grip.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he croaked.

 

“Don’t be cute.  You and your wife stole her damn watch.  Where is it?” It felt good to get some anger out on Murphy— he wasn’t the worst man Bellamy had ever come across, but his moral failings filled a useful spot in Bellamy’s moral hierarchy.  Decent enough to be useful, bad enough to be punched sometimes.

 

Murphy raised a hand in surrender.  “If you let me breathe, I’ll get it.”  Bellamy stepped back and Murphy glanced at Zoe.  “Sorry. Just business,” he said, not sorry at all.  He drew a gold watch out of his pocket and held it out gingerly.

 

Bellamy snatched it and handed it to Zoe without looking.  “That it?”

 

She took it.  “Yes, that’s it.”

 

Murphy let out a relieved breath but Bellamy stepped towards him again.  “What else did you take?”

 

“Nothing,” Murphy said, but his eyes darted away.

 

“What.  else,” he gritted.

 

“There might have been...some cash.”

 

“What?”  Zoe’s high pitched shock would have been funny, if Bellamy was a man who laughed anymore.

 

“It’s gone though.  I don’t have it, but that’s not—”

 

Bellamy fisted his hand in Murphy’s shirtfront and dragged him out of the saloon, squaling.  He listened for Zoe’s protests, for her gentle nature to beg for mercy, but he heard nothing.  He kept going until he hit the water trough and dumped Murphy in, face first. He waited for him to emerge.  Zoe stood next to him with her arms crossed, a glimmer of a smile on her lips. Murphy sputtered and coughed and looked up apprehensively.  “You find the money. Today.” Bellamy ordered, and he nodded meekly.

 

Zoe trailed him back to the cabin.  They were well past camp by the time she spoke.  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

 

Bellamy just grunted in response.

 

**

 

“Bellamy?  Jasper’s looking for you,” Miller said when the sun had disappeared behind the hills.

 

“What’s he want?” he said and squinted at the ledger.

 

“I have no idea because he wasn’t looking for me, he’s looking for you,” Miller said with an edge of humor.

 

Bellamy glared at him and walked out of the small shack he used as an office.  Jasper was waiting nervously by the hitching post, twisting his hat in his hands.  “What?” Bellamy barked.

 

Jasper coughed.  “Don’t be mad, but—”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Nothing!  I didn’t, I swear.  But, uh...Murphy wanted me to give you this.”  Jasper handed over a stack of greenbacks as if they carried plague.  “He said it’s everything your wif— it’s everything.”

 

“Why would I be mad about getting her money back?”

 

“Because...he left.”  Jasper kept chewing on his lower lip, gnawing at it like that would change what he had to say.

 

“He left,” Bellamy echoed, not quite comprehending.

 

“With the stagecoach.  Said he had business down in the valley, but really…”

 

“Really he’s running away,” Bellamy finished.  Jasper flinched, but Bellamy just sighed. “Go ahead, get back to the saloon.”  This meant Zoe would be staying for the foreseeable future, but he’d deal with that later tonight.  Maybe Raven could take her in, and if not, well, Octavia’s room would suffice.

 

He pocketed the money and Jasper scampered off.  Bellamy watched him go, pondering, and Miller came to stand next to him.  “Why’s he so scared of me?” Bellamy asked.

 

Miller let out a scoff.  “You’re joking, right?”

 

“No, really.  Jasper knows me, so what the fuck was that?”

 

Miller patted his shoulder.  “We’ll talk about that when your head isn’t full of anvils,” he said with a grin.

 

**

 

He found Zoe in her traveling dress and hat, sitting primly on the porch.  “My trunk is packed,” she informed him. “It appears the stagecoach driver has been delayed.”

 

Bellamy held out her bundle of money.  “He’s not coming.”

 

She took it without even counting and slipped it into her reticule.  “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Murphy.  He’s not coming.”  He shouldered past her into the cabin.  It was clean— cleaner than it had been when he left, he was reasonable sure.  “Did you do this?”

 

“There was nothing else to do,” she said with a wave of her hand.  “When is he coming?”

 

“No idea,” Bellamy said and started kicking the fire in the stove back up.  “Last time Murphy took off, he was gone a couple of weeks.” He was finally feeling like eating again, or at least as much as he had since he lost Gina.  And now he had a wife to feed. He found some potatoes in the cupboard and brushed them clean with the scrub brush.

 

She found her voice.  “So what, I’m stuck here?  With you?”

 

The scorn stung what little pride he had left.  “I did buy you,” he said nastily. “And by the way, sixty dollars is a hell of lot of money for a farmer’s daughter.”

 

“My father gave me some savings in case my  _ husband _ turned out to be a  _ horse’s ass _ ,” she snapped.

 

Bellamy picked up his knife and started slicing the potatoes.  Fried potatoes and biscuits weren’t the fanciest dinner, but it was all he had.  She made a disgusted sound and moved towards the stove, scooping out fat from the tureen and tossing it in the skillet.  “That dress is too fine for cooking,” Bellamy grumbled. It was just a travel dress, but it was far more expensive looking than a farmer’s daughter would likely choose for a long, arduous trip through the mountains.

 

She spun around. “You want me to change?  Then fine, I’ll change,” she hissed and stomped off.  

 

He had cooled down some by the time she returned.  “There’s a woman in town. Raven. She’s a blacksmith and she lives out behind her shop.  If you’d rather stay with her, I can make the introductions tonight.”

 

“I’d rather not be a burden on a stranger,” she sniffed and sat down at the table.  Bellamy fought back a surge of anger and set down the plate.

 

He sat across from her and studied her dress for a lack of anything better thing to do.  It was plainer than her travel dress, but the material was more delicate and it had tiny pink flowers embroidered all over the skirt.  His mother had done some stitching when there was need for it— between her nights at the saloon— and Bellamy knew that each one of those roses would take an hour of work.

 

Far too expensive for a farmer’s daughter.

 

“Who made your dress?” he asked.

 

“I did,” she said without looking up.  “And my sister did the embroidery for me last winter.”

 

“I thought your profile said you didn’t have any sisters,” Bellamy said casually.  Truth be told he couldn’t remember much about Zoe Monroe, much less if she had any family, but he was curious.  Something didn’t add up.

 

She chewed her potatoes slowly.  Too slowly. “She’s married to my eldest brother.  But she’s lived with the family for so long, she might as well be my sister.”

 

She stood and carried her plate to the draining board but Bellamy waved her off.  “You’re a guest until the stagecoach comes back,” he said gruffly. 

 

She gave him a tight nod, and that was how his almost-wife officially moved in.

 

**

 

Zoe Monroe did not have suitable clothes.  That became clear the third day she spent in Bellamy’s cabin, emerging from Octavia’s room in deep green velvet dress with jet beading.  Bellamy didn’t expect her to do anything, but in a town where most people had one outfit, the fact that she had three, none of them sturdy enough for mining or hunting or even cleaning— was suspicious.  “I thought I’d go for a walk today.” she announced that morning. “If I’m to be stuck here, I might as well acquaint myself with the area.”

 

“In that?” Bellamy asked incredulously.  It was difficult to share a small cabin with her.  Her presence reminded him of what it used to be, those first few months with Gina and Octavia and his mother.  Since then he had gotten used to a ringing silence. Zoe wasn’t loud, but she was another person inhabiting his space and it made him irritable.

 

“It’s a walking dress,” she said with a slight edge.

 

“Not here it isn’t.  And where’d a farmer’s daughter get something like that?”

 

She smoothed her hair back and pinned her hat on.  “I told you. My brother’s wife was a fine seamstress.  She worked for the wife of the richest man in town, even.”  

 

Bellamy pursed his lips and sighed.  “Hold on.” He disappeared into his room and rooted around in the trunk at the foot of his bed.  He found the old pair of trousers near the bottom— his mother had patched them so many times they were nearly useless, and they would likely hang a few inches long on her legs.  He found a shirt from when they lived in Tondisi too, a little moth eaten but wearable.

 

“Here.”  He held the clothes out to her and she looked at him blankly.  “They’re for you. You want to go walking in the mountains, you can’t be wearing a dress like that.  It’ll be ruined and your...sister in law’s hard work with it.”

 

“People will be shocked.  It isn’t proper.”

 

“People here got over that a long time ago.”

 

Her eyes flashed and she took the clothing.  “Thank you,” she said, and he mustered up a small smile in return.

 

**

 

Risk came with mining.  That much Bellamy knew. He knew all the dangers and that was why he talked Monty and Miller and the others into setting off on their own— because they could navigate the risks together.  They would watch out for one another more than any East Coast suit, they reasoned, and be able to keep more of the money for themselves.

 

Freedom and safety.  That was what he sold his men.

 

The  _ Sweet Gina _ was safer than most.  They had only had two accidents in the more than two years they had been working it.  Murphy had broken his foot— that was why he took up driving the stagecoach instead— and two young kids who joined them three months into the dig had caused a cave in when they showed up to work drunk.  One had his arm crushed but Bellamy threw them both out of camp for that, because he wasn’t going to harbor idiots who took unnecessary risks.

 

But sometimes, even when he did everything right, the world would go to hell.  That much he knew.

 

Bellamy was out of his chair the moment he heard the rumble and was halfway through the entrance to the mine before the first men made it out.  “Where?” he shouted.

 

“Southwest tunnel,” Connor coughed.  Dust billowed everywhere and men were shouting, pelting for the open air.  Bellamy headed for the tunnel but them Miller was there, his arms around Bellamy’s waist.

 

“Not now,” Miller yelled over the commotion.  

 

“Men could be down there!” Bellamy thrashed against his hold but Miller’s arms were firm.

 

“They probably are,” he said, dragging Bellamy backwards.  “But you getting caught in a cave in won’t help anyone.”

 

Bellamy relented and let Miller pull him out.  He started counting the men who were doubled over, coughing out the dust and swearing.  A few more straggled out looking worse. One had a swollen eye and was holding his arm gingerly and another had blood pouring down his face.  Bellamy’s stomach churned. They were short too many, and the crash of boulders was too loud and kept going. This wasn’t a small cave in like the one at the start— this was bad.   _ How many are dead?  How many men did I kill? _

 

“I’m six short,” he told Miller.

 

“I’m at seven, but is that Dax over there?”  Bellamy nodded. “Then I’ve got six too.”

 

Bellamy listened intently, but he didn’t hear any more rumbles of the collapse.  “I’m going in,” he announced and Miller was right beside him. They made it halfway down the southwest tunnel before they found the blockage.  He heard shouting, muffled through rock, and Miller nodded. 

 

Bellamy had the first boulder moved by the time Miller arrived with the rest of the men.  “We’re coming,” he shouted through the rubble but he wasn’t sure they could hear him. They set up a line, shifting the rocks one by one.  Twice the boulders came tumbling down and they had to scatter and then start again, but eventually they had made a space large enough for him to hoist himself up and look through.

 

“Who’s hurt worst?” he asked.

 

“Atom,” Mbege said promptly.  He’s bad— stuck a few paces back.  We can’t get him out.”

 

“We’re coming,” Bellamy said as soothingly as he could.

 

“Hurry,” Myles begged.  His eyes were wide and the rest of him was covered in dust.  He was clearly on the verge of panicking, but Bellamy didn’t have time to fix that now.

 

“We’re coming,” he said again and then he was back trying to pry rocks the size of his torso off the pile and handing it to the person behind him.  Time slipped past, moments stretching and collapsing until he wasn’t sure how long he’d been working. It could have been ten minutes and it could have been ten hours.  They made the space big enough for Myles to squeeze through and then Bellamy reached in for the next man, and the next. Mbege was the last one out except for Atom, and Bellamy was preparing to fit himself back there and check it out when Zoe materialized by his side. 

 

“Let me through,” she ordered.

 

“Like hell.”  He grabbed her arm and tugged her back.  “What are you even doing here?”

 

She was in her traveling dress today, already more worn than when she arrived two weeks ago.  And she was dirty, as if she’d been part of the chain moving the rocks. “I can help. They said someone’s hurt back there.”

 

“You going to lift up the rocks yourself, princess?”  Bellamy spat. He was confused and angry and didn’t have time for this.  He ducked into the small space his men had been trapped in and scrambled over the rocks to the source of the moans.

 

It was as he feared.  Atom was pinned under a support beam, a pile of rubble covering his legs.  He was pale and the ground around him was sticky with drying blood. Horror swept over him.  Horror and helplessness and grief. Atom moaned, trying to speak, but it was unintelligible.

 

Zoe knelt next to him because she never, ever listened.  “I have some medical training,” she said, her hand resting on his forearm.

 

“Help. Me.”  Atom’s plea was so quiet they could hardly hear him.

 

Zoe took in the tableau and looked at Bellamy.  She didn’t shake her head, or mouth the word  _ no _ , or anything of the sort.  But he knew she was saying it was hopeless, and another wave of terror threatened to swamp him.  “I’m going to help you, okay?” she said, and leaned forward to brush Atom’s hair off his forehead.  The gesture was so tender, so loving, Bellamy’s breath caught in his throat. She started to hum, a song mostly sung over cribs late at night, and slowly, Atom stopped gasping for breath.  She never stopped humming and never stopped stroking his hair, comforting Bellamy’s man as he slipped out of the world.

 

Night had fallen by the time they climbed out of the tunnel and made their way to the entrance.  Miller was waiting with a small crew and Nyko was seeing to the remaining wounded. “We’ll finish moving the blockage.  See to his body,” Miller said and touched his shoulder. 

 

Bellamy nodded, his throat too tight to speak.  Zoe stopped for a few words with Nyko, but he waved her on.  She fell into step beside him and they walked back to his cabin without a word.

 

She walked towards Octavia’s room in the thick silence, but Bellamy reached out and grabbed her arm.  “Thank you,” he forced out. “But someday soon, you’re going to have to tell me why a farmer’s daughter knows so damn much about doctoring.”

 

**

  
  
  
  


[Bellamy points out that she’s too fancy for a farmer and she doesn’t respond to her name/ Roan comes past/Clarke admits her name/dam breaks]

 

Other scenes: 

Cave smut

Bellamy visits Echo and Clarke makes some Assumptions

Convo about lost loves outside in the middle of the night

Clarke has a nightmare

Octavia has her baby

Clarke confesses real reason why she ran away

Bellamy has a nightmare

Reading to each other/bedsharing

bathing/hair brushing

Emerson shows up

party/horse ride home

Typhoid hits/Sick montage

Clarke gets sick/he realizes he’s in love

Smut

Happy montage

Emerson and pinkerton/Mountain Men show up 

Clarke goes with them

Clarke returns

Happy ending

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least this one has a rough outline of an ending, I guess.
> 
> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	9. Christmas AU

Bellamy loved his apartment.  It was a sunny one bedroom with a large bay window in the living room that overlooked the street.  Across the street was a park with real, honest to god  _ trees _ , and if he sat in the window seat while doing his grading, it was almost like he didn’t live in the middle of a godforsaken city with entirely too many people.  It was close to campus, there was an Indian restaurant not too far away with reasonable prices and mostly reliable delivery guys, and it had a washer and dryer in the basement he could use.  Plus, the rent was more than affordable, and really, he counted himself lucky.

 

Except.

 

It wasn’t his fault.  Not entirely. He was moving in, and he needed something to prop open the back door.  He didn’t know the gallery owner on the first floor, but the door to the storage room was open and he saw a garbage can and figured that would be good enough.  How the fuck was he supposed to know it was actually part of an art installation? It was a fucking  _ garbage can _ , round and aluminium and only missing Oscar the Grouch to complete its utterly banal, trash can existence.

 

But he barely had the first box halfway up the stairs when the gallery owner came rushing out, yelling about how expensive it was.  Bellamy was caught off-guard— which was never his best mode— and when she accused him of being a  _ brute who wouldn’t know art if it punched him in the face _ , he lost his temper.  They bellowed at each other until Octavia arrived and Lincoln managed to smooth things over.  That was how he found out her name, and while Lincoln assured him that it wasn’t as bad as Bellamy thought, Bellamy had carried a grudge against Clarke Griffin, Proprietess of Prism Gallery, ever since.

 

And today was shaping up to be a hell of a terrible day.  Bellamy’s class had the last scheduled final— December 23, 8-11am— and the second he left class with their papers, the snow started dumping down.  The news had been talking about this storm for days, but he’d hoped it would hold off until his flight was in the air.

 

But luck had never been on Bellamy’s side.  There were no flights going anywhere on the entire eastern seaboard, and enough roads were closed between here and Octavia’s new place in Alexandria that there wasn’t much point in trying to get there by Christmas.  He spent the afternoon on the phone with the airline and managed to get rebooked for a few days over New Years, but now he was facing three solid days by himself. 

 

He had called his order in to Taste of India a half hour ago, so he pulled on his boots and coat and grabbed his hat.  Normally he didn’t mind paying for delivery (it was his one extravagance) but in this weather, he felt entirely too guilty.  (He wouldn’t have ordered out at all, except he knew the owners lived above the store and wouldn’t have to travel).

 

Bellamy opened the door to the back parking lot and found himself face to face with Clarke Griffin herself.  Thick flakes were stuck in her bright red beanie and the hair around her face,and she had a suitcase half her size that she was struggling to lift up and through the door.

 

Bellamy stood aside and debated offering to help.  “Moving in, princess?” he asked.

 

Clarke rolled her eyes.  “Shut up,” she growled.

 

Bellamy hesitated.  “Wait, are you— staying here?”

 

“What do you care?”

 

“Never mind,” he said, and stepped out the door, but then something made him turn around.  “No, really, are you...planning on staying here? For Christmas?”

 

“And if I am?”

 

“You’ve got a bed in there?”

 

“My office is carpeted.”

 

“You have like, an apartment, right?”

 

“I do, but when I left this morning I thought I’d be getting on a flight to visit my mom.  That’s not happening now, and the roads are shit and the Mustang can’t really handle it. So I’ll just stay here.”

 

Bellamy bit back a retort about her stupid muscle car.  “That’s ridiculous. You’re going to sleep on your office floor?  What if the roads are still like this tomorrow?” They were talking about the storm being stalled over them, dumping unimaginable amounts of snow for at least three days.  This wasn’t just a night in her office— this could be days.

 

“It’s fine, Bellamy.”

 

“What are you going to eat?”  His curls were getting wet from the snow, sticking down on his forehead.  

 

“I just ordered from Taste of India.  The owners live above--”

 

“Above the store, yeah.”  Bellamy couldn’t believe he was about to do this, but the words were out before he could stop himself.  “Go upstairs. I’m headed to Taste of India too, so I’ll get your food too.”

 

“And then you’ll murder me?” she asked wryly.

 

“It’s Christmas.  I’ll save the murdering for 2017,” he said in the same tone, and a half smile bloomed on her face.  This was the most civil conversation they had ever had, which made inviting her to spend Christmas with him was a terrible idea, but Bellamy hated the idea of anyone— even her— being alone on Christmas.

 

And fine, he was a little lonely too.

 

She reached for her purse but he shook his head.  “You can pay me back when I get back,” he said and tossed her his keys.

 

To his surprise, Clarke had pulled out plates by the time he got back with the bags.  She’d left $30 on the counter, and they only had a small fight when he insisted on giving her a $5 in return.

 

It ended up being an awkward but not entirely disastrous night.  Clarke was fine with the couch— he offered his bedroom, but pretty half heartedly because honestly, his couch was kind of a piece of crap— and they mostly kept to themselves.  He read some news on his phone and after dinner was cleared away she pulled out her sketchbook and settled into an armchair next to his fireplace.

 

It was almost friendly, like when he pulled out a paper and groaned aloud.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“I let them write on any topic they want on all of Ancient Greece, and what do 60% of them choose?”

 

“The battle of Thermopylae?”

 

“The battle of Thermopylae,” he confirmed.  

 

“ _ 300 _ is pretty badass, if kind of…”

 

“Male-gaze-y?”

 

“Incredibly so,” Clarke agreed.

 

He almost smiled and she almost smiled back, and that was the high point of the night.  He pulled out blankets and pillow for her and she thanked him quietly, and he figured hey, this wouldn’t be so bad.  It might be a little weird, but they could do it.

 

But then he woke up the next morning.

 

Bellamy did not function well without coffee and neither, it would appear, did Clarke.  “Kind of a shitty couch you’ve got there,” she mumbled when he walked out of his bedroom.  

 

Here’s the thing: it  _ was _ a shitty couch.  Miller said that every time he came over, and honestly, Bellamy hated the damn thing.  It had been cheap, and it sagged in places it shouldn’t and was hard everywhere else, and generally, it kind of sucked.  And he probably should have warned her before letting her sleep on it, or insisted on her taking his bed, or something. But he hadn’t, and besides, he hated being reminded he was poor.  “Nothing stopping you from going downstairs, princess,” he grumbled back. He opened the coffee maker and started scooping in the grounds while Clarke massaged her lower back.

 

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

 

“Okay, Clarke,” he said, putting slightly too much emphasis on her name.  He smirked at her, and she scoffed.

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“Again, nothing stopping you from leaving.”

 

“Except the eighteen inches of snow outside.”

 

Bellamy set the coffee maker to brew and decided to just...ignore her.  It was petty and childish, but he was feeling a little foolish for having offered to let her stay and now there was no way out of it.  He also hadn’t exactly thought about what having Clarke stay would entail— like seeing her in a loose pajama shirt and no bra, her bare feet shuffling over each other.  Her hair was loose and mussed, and dammit, she was  _ pretty _ .  Normally, pretty women didn’t bother him.  But Clarke was a pretty woman whom he’d been pretty goddamn rude to on multiple occasions, and now she was living in his tiny apartment for the foreseeable future.

 

And that made him grumpy, and as Octavia liked to say, nothing good came of Bellamy in a grumpy mood.  He clattered the dishes around and closed the kitchen cabinets entirely too loudly, and generally acted like a jackass while she watched.  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said abruptly.

 

“What?”  He pushed a bowl across the counter at her and set down a box of cereal.

 

“When you were moving in.  I know— I know it was a mistake.  And it  _ was _ just a trash can, and you would have no way of knowing that, and it’s not like you destroyed it or anything.  The artist was just this pretentious asshole who was making my life a living hell, but getting his exhibit was huge for my gallery and I couldn’t afford for him to pull out.”

 

“What the hell are you bringing that up for?”  He was feeling like she said that so  _ he _ would apologize, and maybe he’d been thinking about apologizing before but he wasn’t going to be tricked into it.

 

God, he was such a child.

 

“You know what?  Fuck you,” she replied, and shoved back from the counter.  “I’d rather stay on the floor of my office than deal with this shit.”

 

She stood up, and his guilt got the better of him.  “I’m poor,” he said.

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, I’m poor.  Affording this place is kind of a big deal for me, and it’s the first time I’ve ever lived without roommates or my sister to split rent.”

 

“And?”

 

Bellamy leaned his elbows on the counter and sighed.  “I mean, I’m kind of...sensitive about being poor. I overreact.  And so when you were so sure I wouldn’t know anything about art, it was just like ‘oh, great, another rich jackass who thinks I’m beneath them.’  And that couch...it’s terrible, I know. But it was all I could afford when I started grad school, and I don’t exactly have a lot of extra money so...it’s all I’ve got.”

 

Clarke sat back down.  “Well, now I feel like a jackass.”

 

“You should,” he said with a faint smile, and behind him, the coffee maker beeped.  “Milk, sugar, or black?” he asked, pulling out the mugs.

 

“Black,” she said, echoing his smile.  “So does that count as our apologies?”

 

“I say we just start over.  Fresh start. Bellamy Blake, grad student,” he said, handing her the coffee and sticking out his hand.

 

“Clarke Griffin, artist,” she said, shaking it.  Her hands were callused in places, and he liked how they felt in his— strong and sure and warm.

 

_ Oh.  Shit. _

 

He got himself back on track and asked where she would normally be on Christmas Eve.  “My mom’s place down in DC. She’s a doctor, and my step-dad is in Congress. You?”

 

“My sister’s place in Alexandria, actually.  Well, she used to live here, so we’d do it together and this is her first year living down there.  Her husband’s from down there, and she got a job at the FBI—”

 

“--so she’s a badass, is what you’re saying.”

 

“Yes.  With a gun and everything.  You met her husband, um…”

 

“The day you moved in.  Yeah, I did. He’s great.  I assume you hate him?” she asked, tipping her head to the side and grinning.

 

“I did, but he won me over.  But yeah, I was supposed to go down this year, but my students’ final was late and then the snow, so…”

 

“And you didn’t decorate your place for Christmas?” Clarke asked.

 

“Didn’t seem like much point, since I gave her all the decorations and ornaments last year.  She made most of them, anyway.”

 

Clarke looked around his apartment thoughtfully and took a bite of cereal.  “Makes sense, I guess. So you’re studying history, right?” she asked, and he started explaining his dissertation.  It was strange, talking to her like this— strangely easy. She told him about Prism’s upcoming exhibition (black and white photography), and gathered up their breakfast dishes and put them in the sink.

 

Octavia called an hour later, when they were sitting on the couch with their third cups of coffee.  Bellamy ducked into his bedroom to answer it and got unaccountably flustered when explaining to Octavia that he wasn’t exactly spending Christmas alone.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please: Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


	10. Accidental Pregnancy

Ugh.

That was Clarke’s first thought upon waking up. Her mouth was dry and stale, her head was pounding, and her stomach was roiling.

She was also hot and sticky, and oh goddamn.

The reason for both her hangover and current state of sweatiness was laying on his back, breathing through his mouth, blissfully unaware of their colossal fuck up. He was shirtless, and if her current state of complete nakedness was any indication, he probably didn’t have anything else on either.

She was never, ever, ever, letting someone talk her into tequila shots ever again.

Clarke eased out of the bed and started tiptoeing around, gathering her clothes as memories from the night before resurfaced, more clearly than she anticipated. A quiet round of drinks in the hotel bar to celebrate the end of a successful Association of Academic Museums and Galleries yearly conference had turned into okay, just a few drinks on the Strip. It is Vegas after all, and all we’ve seen is the inside of hotel ballrooms. Of course Bellamy had joined them--it didn’t matter that they despised each other. He was always there, being annoyingly handsome and reminding her that some museums do real work while yours just hangs some pretty pictures. 

The lights and action of the Strip were kind of overwhelming to Clarke, who much preferred a glass of red wine in a quiet, almost empty bar to the nonstop action of Vegas. When a bachelor party almost ran her over Bellamy had shouldered his way to her and then walked beside her, his hand hovering near her lower back in case her less-than-professional heels made her wobble again. But then one drink at the Bellagio turned into two, and then the next thing she remembered everyone else had gone back to their hotel and she and Bellamy were alone, standing in front of the cheesy fountain from Ocean’s Eleven. And then they were kissing and hurrying back to his room, completely unable to keep their hands off of each other.

Clarke hooked her bra and a sudden thought sent her heart dropping into her stomach. Oh god, did we— she looked at her hands, but no, no ring. She rifled through her memories of the night before and couldn’t recall any marriage ceremonies or Elvis impersonator reverends. There weren’t any papers laying around announcing their marriage either, and a quick glance at Bellamy (looking at him full on seemed hard this morning, so she kept him in her periphery instead) confirmed that he wasn’t wearing a ring. 

Thank god for small miracles.

Clarke stepped into the offending heels and shimmied her little black dress back on, fighting back a blush when she remembered the way he’d bent her over the small desk in the corner, pushing inside of her so deep she almost sobbed with pleasure, his body curving over hers and his breath hot on her ear as he whispered her name.

Clarke found her key card and her purse and slipped out before he woke up, grateful that she’d dodged that bullet at least.

 

**

She should have realized something was wrong much earlier. She should have been smarter about it, should have swung by a pharmacy and picked up some Plan B, just in case.

But Clarke vividly remembered Bellamy having a condom and would never forget rolling it onto him on her knees, a feral look in his eyes.

The fact that they only had one condom but had sex twice completely slipped her mind. Not that she didn’t remember the second time (she woke up on his chest when it was still dark out and kissed him absent mindedly, and that somehow spiraled into Bellamy’s weight pressing her down while he fucked her slowly, their eyes locked together), but somehow, she assumed that since they used a condom once, they must have the second time.

It was only now, three goddamn months later, that she realized they hadn’t.

And again, she really, really should have realized it sooner. It’s not like there weren’t signs. Hell, even Bellamy noticed she was rundown when she saw him at the annual Jaha Foundation meeting. 

She’d been killing herself for the past two months to get a new exhibit installed and really didn’t have a chance to think about the fact that her “flu” had been lingering for weeks. She even considered skipping the meeting, but as Assistant Curator (and a major reason the Jaha’s donated to her museum) she really couldn’t, so she hauled herself across town. The Jaha Foundation was probably the biggest donor to each of their museums so Bellamy’s presence wasn’t a surprise, but she wanted to kick herself when she showed up five minutes late and the only chair left was next to him.

Bellamy threw a glance her way once she was settled, frowned, and scribbled something on his notepad. He nudged it her way and pretended to be absorbed in whatever funding projections the speaker was droning on about.

You look like hell, it said in his neat handwriting, all thick strokes and capital letters.

Clarke made an annoyed face and he rolled his eyes. He tugged the pad back and wrote a little more.

Are you feeling okay?

Clarke kept her eyes trained on the speaker (now attempting to bore everyone to death by explaining a new software that would track individual donors) and wrote back.

It’s just the flu or something. Her loopy cursive looked odd below his rigid printing and for some ridiculous reason brought back memories of Vegas, the contrast of her skin against his and the way his stubble rasped against her neck. Her only solace was he was acting like nothing happened. If she was honest, pretending that he hadn’t looked at her the way he had that night was the only thing keeping her sane. 

Bellamy looked at her curiously and slipped out of his chair. He snuck back into the conference room (the speaker didn’t seem to notice and everyone else was sleeping with their eyes open) a few minutes and placed a sleeve of crackers in front of her.

Clarke tried to wave him away, but he wouldn’t be deterred. Just eat them, he wrote. So she did, and she hated to admit it, but they helped.

She was, at the time, completely unaware that she was accepting kindness from the father of her unborn child.

Ugh.

Clarke tossed the fourth pregnancy test into the wastebasket and stood up. This would require a detailed plan, and if there was one thing Clarke Griffin was good at, it was planning.

 

**

Bellamy,

Can we meet for coffee? Maybe tomorrow? I need to talk to you.

Clarke Griffin  
Assistant Curator  
Arcadia Museum of Modern Art

 

Sure. 2pm at the Starbucks on Poplar?

B  
Sent from my iphone

 

Yeah that works. See you then.

Clarke Griffin  
Assistant Curator  
Arcadia Museum of Modern Art

 

Bellamy entered the Starbucks at exactly 2:01pm, but Clarke was already sitting with two coffees in front of her. His order was simple enough (venti drip with a splash of soy milk) and they had collaborated on enough projects between their museums that she knew it by heart. He spotted her and dropped into the chair across the table, looking pale and kind of angry. “Whatever this is, it isn’t good. So let’s get it over with,” he announced.

“I’m pregnant. And it’s yours,” she snapped. He wanted to get it over with, so she did.

Bellamy’s face drained of color. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Vegas?”

“Unless we had sex some other time that I’m not aware of, yes,” she said primly. Clarke sat back and took a sip of her drink.

“Should you be drinking that?”

“Really? That’s your first question?”

“Well, isn’t caffeine bad for pregnant women?”

“Not in small doses. And for your information, this is herbal tea, so we’re fine.”

Bellamy gaped at her for a minute and Clarke rolled her eyes. She wasn’t being fair, she knew— she’d had a week to get used to the idea— but Bellamy tended to put her on edge and she’d learned long ago that with him, that the best defense was a good offense. “Do you have any questions?”

Bellamy scrubbed a hand over his face and rested his elbows on the table. “I assume you’re keeping it, since we’re having this conversation.”

“Yes. I didn’t find out until I was almost out of my first trimester and abortions get kind of tricky after twelve or thirteen weeks. And— I don’t know, I do want to be a mom and I can afford it, so to answer the question you didn’t ask, yes I considered an abortion but I decided against it.”

“Even though it’s mine.”

“Even though it’s yours.” Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m sure it’s yours?”

Bellamy eyed her over the rim of his cup and shrugged. “I might not like you very much, but you’re honest. You wouldn’t be telling me this if you weren’t totally sure.”

Internally, Clarke reeled. She was prepared for a fight, maybe a demand for a paternity test. Not...trust. “Okay, well, I had a doctor’s appointment to confirm earlier this week and I’ll have another ultrasound in a few weeks. You can be as involved as you want, but I can handle this financially so if you don’t want anything to do with us, that’s okay. Once the baby is born I would like him or her to know their father, but the extent of that relationship is up to you.”

Bellamy gave her a disgusted look. “I’ll be there. You’re not doing this alone.” The hand holding his coffee cup seemed to tremble for a second and he set the cup down. “If you’re in, I’m in.”

“I’m in.” Clarke swallowed thickly, relieved that he wasn’t fighting her on anything. If she was honest, she had been terrified of his reaction. 

Bellamy put his hand over hers where it rested near her picked-at muffin. “We’re a good team when we need to be, Griffin. We can do this,” he assured her. There was something almost soft about his voice and for the first time in a week and a half, Clarke felt like this wasn’t a huge mistake. He was right, of course— when they put their constant bickering and needling aside, they could handle just about any inane joint project their bosses threw at them. A baby was different, but when he put it like that? 

Well, she almost believed him.

 

**

They made it two whole weeks without a fight which, if anyone was counting, was probably a record. Clarke sent him an email with the details of her doctor’s appointment and he responded that he would take the afternoon off and for fourteen whole days, Clarke let herself believe that she and Bellamy could handle this like they handled any other interaction that they couldn’t avoid— professionally, and mostly through email. But then he wanted her to meet his little sister.

I’d like you to meet Octavia and her husband Lincoln. We do dinner on Saturday nights, so if you’re free this week I’d like to introduce you to our kid’s future aunt and uncle.

Bellamy  
Sent from my iPhone

 

——-

Thanks, but no.

 

Clarke Griffin  
Assistant Curator  
Arcadia Museum of Modern Art

 

Clarke was just packing up her things to leave her office when someone knocked on her door. She looked up, surprised, because she’d sent everyone in her department home for the weekend already but in strode Bellamy, looking furious. “What the fuck?” he hissed.

“What now?”

Bellamy closed her door and rounded on her. “You’re not up for meeting my goddamn sister?”

Clarke waved a hand dismissively. “I will be eventually. But not now,” she said. It was the truth, after all. Bellamy was famously close to his little sister (practically raised her, or so the gossip went) and Clarke wasn’t really used to family. Once upon a time she had been, but when she was seventeen some drunk hit her father when he was driving home from the grocery store and nothing had been the same since.

“When, then? We’ve only got six months to get this shit figured out.”

“Later, okay? Not now.” Clarke kept up her collected facade, because I’m not sure I can handle watching a happy, loving family when I haven’t had that in a long time seemed entirely too personal.

“You know we’re having a baby together, right?” Clarke rolled her eyes but Bellamy barreled on. “A baby, and you’re acting like it’s some goddamn joint summer program.”

Clarke stood and circled her desk, her arms crossed. “I’m just trying to keep things professional,” she replied evenly.

“Professional?” He gave a disbelieving bark of laughter and advanced on her. “Not all of us are ice queens, you know. And this?” Bellamy motioned between them and Clarke clenched her jaw. “This is going to require more than professional. Sometimes I think you’re a fucking robot, Griffin.”

Clarke flared her nostrils and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Every time we let things slip into something that isn’t professional we end up like this,” she hissed. “Face it— we don’t work any other way, and I’m sorry if I thought being a little reserved was better than biting each other’s heads off every time we see each other.” She looked up and forgot what she was going to say, because his dark eyes were blazing. Without warning his lips captured hers and honestly, Clarke kind of thought she was imagining how it felt to kiss him because how she remembered it seemed impossible.

But she was wrong. It was exactly the way she remembered, only more. Her senses were sharper without alcohol but she felt drunk anyway, drunk on him. His tongue moved against hers and she fisted her hands in his shirt to keep him from moving away. Desire crashed over her in waves and she untucked his shirt.

Bellamy pulled back. “It’s unlocked.”

“Everyone’s gone, it’s fine,” she mumbled and attached her lips to his jaw. He had a few days worth of stubble there and it rasped under her tongue. “Clothes. Off,” she ordered and Bellamy smirked and rubbed her now aching nipples through the loose dress she was wearing.

He shrugged out of his shirt and pushed her to sit down in one of the chairs she kept for visitors, urging her to lift her hips as he knelt before her and guided her panties down her legs. He ghosted kisses up her inner thigh and then licked a long, slow stripe up her center. If anyone came in Clarke would definitely be fired but right now all that mattered was his dark head between her thighs. It was obscene, really, to have him eating her out in her office but god his tongue was doing things that had her seeing spots. I want to taste you, he’d whispered in her ear that night Vegas, like there would be more moments like that instead of just a fleeting glimpse of what they could be.

And now he was tasting her and she was having a hard time controlling her moans, her fingers twisting in his hair and her hips chasing his movements until the heat in her belly rose and crested like a wave and she shook under his ministrations. 

Then he was standing and pulling her up, shoving his pants and boxers down around his ankles and sitting down in her chair. It took a little bit of maneuvering but then she was sinking down on him and goddamn her memories really weren’t lying. Her eyes closed as she adjusted to him inside of her and his fingers curled around her cheeks. “Look at me,” he growled and so she did, letting herself drown in his eyes while he helped her push against his thrusts. His dark brown eyes didn’t leave hers until he was coming, shuddering against her and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

He kept his hands around her hips as they came down from their high, his eyes soft.

“That wasn’t very productive,” she said wryly.

“Depends on your definition of productive,” he tossed back. 

Clarke giggled. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll come meet your sister.”

**

Clarke regretted her post-coital pliability almost from the moment Bellamy left her office but she still found herself driving to his sister’s house the next day with a bottle of wine, telling herself it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared.

But as she walked up to the porch she heard shouting. One voice was Bellamy’s, clearly, and the other was a woman. His sister? But aren’t they super close? Why are they shouting? Before she could knock the door swung open to reveal a handsome man with a bald head, dozens of tattoos, and absolutely killer smile. “You must be Clarke. I’m Lincoln,” he said nicely enough.

“You’re a self-centered ass!” the woman shouted from inside the house.

Lincoln stepped out and closed the door behind him. “It’s best to leave them to it. Bellamy says you’re an artist?”

“What?” Clarke stopped trying to decipher Bellamy’s muffled response. “Oh, um, yeah. Sort of.” She was a little surprised that Bellamy knew that about her but then again she knew a lot of things about him that he’d never told her (like his relationship with his sister, which she was now rapidly re-evaluating).

“I have a studio around back, if you want to see?” Clarke nodded and followed Lincoln off the porch, bewildered. “You’re an only child, right?”

“Yeah, just me,” she confirmed.

“Me too. They take a little getting used to,” Lincoln explained and tipped his head toward the house where Clarke could still hear Bellamy shouting. “But this is how they are— they’ll work it out and be fine before dinner. Here,” he said and opened the door to a small shed.

The shed was packed with sculptures— some ceramic, some made from found materials. They were delicate and solid at the same time, graceful and fierce. Clarke hadn’t seen such raw talent in a long time. “God, they’re beautiful!” Clarke exclaimed. 

Lincoln smiled almost shyly. “Thank you,” he said.

“No, really. These are really good. We have a community exhibition every year, you know. Local artists submit their work to be displayed. Have you ever entered? If you haven’t, you should. You’d be a shoo-in.” Clarke moved closer to a sculpture made from chicken wire and old twisted metal. She started asking him about his methods and circling the sculptures, evaluating them from every angle. “Lincoln, these… these are phenomenal,” she said finally.

“That means a lot coming from you, so thanks.”

“What do you mean, ‘coming from me?’” Clarke crouched down to look at a small miniature piece that was either a bonsai tree or a bomb blast. It’s both, she realized. Death and rebirth at once.

“Bellamy speaks very highly of you,” Lincoln explained.

Clarke scoffed and stood up straight. “Right. I’m sure.”

Lincoln looked puzzled, but then a shadow darkened the doorway. “Maybe I just figured you had a big enough ego without me contributing to it, princess, so I keep my complimentary thoughts about you to myself,” Bellamy interrupted, but his tone wasn’t scornful this time. In fact, it almost sounded like he was flirting. “Sorry about that. It’s safe to come inside now,” he said to Lincoln.

They followed Bellamy through the backyard and into the kitchen, where a striking woman with a familiar jawline stood. “You must be Clarke,” she said without preamble. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Linc, mind checking the oven?”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Clarke said as Lincoln squeezed past to take over the cooking duties. 

Octavia took the wine from her hands and cast her a searching look. “So my idiot brother tells me he knocked you up.”

“He did. But it’s at least half my fault,” Clarke said evenly.

Octavia snorted and Bellamy shrugged. “Sorry, I just told them this afternoon,” he said sheepishly.

“Yeah, because he didn’t think this was something I needed time to absorb,” Octavia said. “He was wrong. Really fucking wrong.”

“If it makes you feel better I haven’t had a lot of time to get used to it either,” Clarke said, and Octavia smiled.

“So you’re a curator?” Octavia asked, and they slipped into an easy conversation that continued for the rest of the night. Lincoln was kind and patient and Octavia was like her brother, all fire and wit. Octavia took fierce pride in her brother’s accomplishments, and Clarke discovered that the gossip was true— Bellamy had walked away from a full-ride scholarship when their mother died to keep Octavia out of the foster system, and together they had worked their way through college. Octavia had seemingly endless stories of things Bellamy had done or given up for her when she was a child and Clarke found herself reevaluating Bellamy in a new light. She had known he was smart and competent and had suspected there was a spot of kindness in him that he kept well-hidden, but Octavia painted a picture of a selfless, warm hearted man that bore little resemblance to the snarling jackass she knew.

Except...it didn’t. She’d seen flashes of that Bellamy, a man who lit up whenever he worked with children, and a man who had accepted the bomb she dropped in his lap with quiet reassurances. This Bellamy, who teased his sister and smiled easily, was someone she could see herself being friends with if only they could stop fighting. 

They managed through the dinner, laughing and talking like old friends, and Bellamy walked her out to her car. Somewhat impulsively she rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek before she drove off, because the Bellamy she met that night— kind and sharp and funny— was a man she wanted to raise a child with.

**

Four days later Bellamy came with her for her first ultrasound appointment and grasped her fingers when the tech pointed out the heartbeat, and Clarke smiled at him with tears in her eyes. He brushed his hand over her forehead and for a second, the office melted away. All she saw was him, and she was happy.

But then he agreed to come over to her house afterwards, and Clarke made the mistake of broaching the plan that had been rattling around in her brain for a week. “I was thinking you could move in,” she said as Bellamy looked into her guest room. She’d purchased the three bedroom colonial four years ago, and had always had more space than she needed. “It would be nice to have you here to help.”

“How much is your mortgage?”

[ARGUMENT/SEX]

[ARGUMENT/SEX/AGREE TO BE FRIENDS]

**

Bellamy pulled into her driveway and climbed out of his car. Clarke grabbed her Vera Bradley duffle and locked the door behind her as he hurried up the front walk. Bellamy took her luggage without asking and tossed it in the trunk. “So are you ready for this?” he asked as he reversed back onto the road.

Are you ready? If Clarke was honest with herself, she wasn’t. Forty-eight hours in her home town, with her mother and all her mother’s friends. Forty-eight hours wherein Bellamy was not only going to meet her mother and step-father, but realize just exactly how rich she was.

She definitely wasn’t ready.

“So how much does your mom hate me?” he asked tightly once they were well out of the city.

“I have no idea,” Clarke admitted. “She took the news pretty well, but--we haven’t always had the easiest relationship so I’m not always the best judge of where she stands on something. Marcus is a good buffer though.”

“So she knows…?”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re not together. I guess I’m wondering if I need to pretend to be your boyfriend or something.”

Clarke snorted. “No, you’re fine. She knows it— she knows it just sort of happened. I might have called you a friend though, which...well, maybe that’s stretching it.”

“Friend,” Bellamy said slowly. “I think that’s fair. Now, at least.” He stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye and Clarke found herself blushing.

When they pulled into Clarke’s old driveway she saw the moment he took in the size of her mother’s home. “This is where you grew up?” he asked with his eyebrows high.

“I know, I know,” she mumbled. “I come from money. You knew that.”

“I know--I wasn’t--I wasn’t saying it like that. It’s just...that’s a really big house, you know.”

[BLAH BLAH BLAH INSIDE/ AWKWARD EXCHANGE WITH ABBY]

 

The Jaha’s annual Fourth of July Barbeque was one of the most sought after invitations in certain social circles, but by virtue of being their next door neighbors the Griffins had always been invited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ARGUMENT/SEX] is probably my most common note to myself during WIPs, tbh.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember: the whole point of this collection is that none of these are finished. That means you knew what you were getting into, and if you comment "I really wish you'd finish this!" I will, uh, be really annoyed with you. Please don't be that person.
> 
> Edited to add: Clearly, I needed to word the above note more strongly, so here goes:
> 
> Do not, under any circumstances, ask me to finish these. It's a collection of *unfinished* works, and they will (unfortunately) be remaining that way, okay? Okay cool.


End file.
